The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (children's books read aloud txt) 📕

He made these reflections sotto voce; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused.

“Excuse me,” said he, “I did not quite understand you.”

“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further.”

He paused with knitted brows.

In seeking a circumstance which would establish the complicity between some member of the duke’s household and the witnesses who had been called upon to give their testimony, Lecoq thought of Mme. Milner, the owner of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and his first meeting with her.

He saw her again, standing upon a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, persistently repeating three or four German words to a starling, who as persistently retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?”

“One thing is certain,” resumed Lecoq; “if Madame Milner—who is a German and who speaks with the strongest possible German accent—had raised this bird, it would either have spoken German or with the same accent as its mistress. Therefore it cannot have been in her possession long, and who gave it to her?”

Father Absinthe began to grow impatient.

“In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.

“I say that if there is someone at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, I have the proof I desire. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.”

And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly along.

When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq saw a messenger leaning against the door of a wine-shop. Lecoq called him.

“Come, my boy,” said he; “I wish you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting her here.”

“But, sir——”

“What, you have not gone yet?”

The messenger departed; the two policemen entered the wine-shop, and Father Absinthe had scarcely had time to swallow a glass of brandy when the lad returned.

“Monsieur, I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille. The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.”

“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young policeman.

Then, controlling himself, he mentally added:

“He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.”

In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice.

M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised at Lecoq’s revelations. Still he listened with evident doubt to the young policeman’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling that seemed to decide him.

“Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, at last; “and to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the Duc de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.”

“Ah! sir, my superior officers will not allow me——”

“On the contrary,” interrupted the judge, “they will allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.”

Such action on the part of M. Segmuller required not a little courage. There had been so much laughter about M. Segmuller’s grand seigneur, disguised as a clown, that many men would have sacrificed their convictions to the fear of ridicule.

“And when will you speak to them?” inquired Lecoq, timidly.

“At once.”

The judge had already turned toward the door when the young policeman stopped him.

“I have one more favor to ask, Monsieur,” he said, entreatingly. “You are so good; you are the first person who gave me any encouragement—who had faith in me.”

“Speak, my brave fellow.”

“Ah! Monsieur, will you not give me a message for Monsieur d’Escorval? Any insignificant message—inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will be the bearer of the message, and then—Oh! fear nothing, Monsieur; I will be prudent.”

“Very well!” replied the judge.

When he left the office of his chief, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed with his investigations, and in his pocket was a note for M. d’Escorval from M. Segmuller. His joy was so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers which were bestowed upon him as he passed through the corridors. On the threshold his enemy Gevrol, the so-called general, was watching for him.

“Ah, ha!” he laughed, as Lecoq passed out, “here is one of those simpletons who fish for whales and do not catch even a gudgeon.”

For an instant Lecoq was angry. He turned abruptly and looked Gevrol full in the face.

“That is better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people outside,” he retorted, in the tone of a man who knows what he is saying.

In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was equivalent to a confession.

But Lecoq said no more. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge?

He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval.

The next morning about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the house of M. d’Escorval.

“Monsieur is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant; “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”

Lecoq entered.

The study was unoccupied. But from the adjoining room, separated from the study only by a velvet portiere, came a sound of stifled exclamations, and of sobs mingled with kisses.

Not knowing whether to remain or retire, the young policeman stood for a moment undecided; then he observed an open letter lying upon the carpet.

Impelled to do it by an impulse stronger than his own will, Lecoq picked up the letter. It read as follows:

“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son, Maurice—your son. I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated the heritage of my poor Marie-Anne.

“Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from