The Mystery of Orcival by Émile Gaboriau (fiction book recommendations .TXT) 📕

of unloosening his tongue, one of which is sure to succeed. But before he comes I should like to know one thing. Do you know whether Trémorel saw Jenny after Sauvresy’s death?”

“Jenny?” asked M. Plantat, a little surprised.

“Yes.”

“Certainly he did.”

“Several times?”

“Pretty often. After the scene at the Belle Image the poor girl plunged into terrible dissipation. Whether she was smitten with remorse, or understood that it was her conduct which had killed Sauvresy, or suspected the crime, I don’t know. She began, however, to drink furiously, falling lower and lower every week⁠—”

“And the count really consented to see her again?”

“He was forced to do so; she tormented him, and he was afraid of her. When she had spent all her money she sent to him for more, and he gave it. Once he refused; and that very evening she went to him the worse for wine, and he had the greatest difficulty in the world to send her away again. In short, she knew what his relations with Madame Sauvresy had been, and she threatened him; it was a regular blackmailing operation. He told me all about the trouble she gave him, and added that he would not be able to get rid of her without shutting her up, which he could not bring himself to do.”

“How long ago was their last interview?”

“Why,” answered the doctor, “not three weeks ago, when I had a consultation at Melun, I saw the count and this demoiselle at a hotel window; when he saw me he suddenly drew back.”

“Then,” said the detective, “there is no longer any doubt⁠—”

He stopped. Guespin came in between two gendarmes.

The unhappy gardener had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours. His eyes were haggard, his dry lips were bordered with foam.

“Let us see,” said the judge. “Have you changed your mind about speaking?”

The prisoner did not answer.

“Have you decided to tell us about yourself?”

Guespin’s rage made him tremble from head to foot, and his eyes became fiery.

“Speak!” said he hoarsely. “Why should I?”

He added with the gesture of a desperate man who abandons himself, renounces all struggling and all hope:

“What have I done to you, my God, that you torture me this way? What do you want me to say? That I did this crime⁠—is that what you want? Well, then⁠—yes⁠—it was I. Now you are satisfied. Now cut my head off, and do it quick⁠—for I don’t want to suffer any longer.”

A mournful silence welcomed Guespin’s declaration. What, he confessed it!

M. Domini had at least the good taste not to exult; he kept still, and yet this avowal surprised him beyond all expression.

M. Lecoq alone, although surprised, was not absolutely put out of countenance. He approached Guespin and tapping him on the shoulder, said in a paternal tone:

“Come, comrade, what you are telling us is absurd. Do you think the judge has any secret grudge against you? No, eh? Do you suppose I am interested to have you guillotined? Not at all. A crime has been committed, and we are trying to find the assassin. If you are innocent, help us to find the man who isn’t: What were you doing from Wednesday evening till Thursday morning?”

But Guespin persisted in his ferocious and stupid obstinacy.

“I’ve said what I have to say,” said he.

M. Lecoq changed his tone to one of severity, stepping back to watch the effect he was about to produce upon Guespin.

“You haven’t any right to hold your tongue. And even if you do, you fool, the police know everything. Your master sent you on an errand, didn’t he, on Wednesday night; what did he give you? A one-thousand-franc note?”

The prisoner looked at M. Lecoq in speechless amazement.

“No,” he stammered. “It was a five-hundred-franc note.”

The detective, like all great artists in a critical scene, was really moved. His surprising genius for investigation had just inspired him with a bold stroke, which, if it succeeded, would assure him the victory.

“Now,” said he, “tell me the woman’s name.”

“I don’t know.”

“You are only a fool then. She is short, isn’t she, quite pretty, brown and pale, with very large eyes?”

“You know her, then?” said Guespin, in a voice trembling with emotion.

“Yes, comrade, and if you want to know her name, to put in your prayers, she is called⁠—Jenny.”

Men who are really able in some specialty, whatever it may be, never uselessly abuse their superiority; their satisfaction at seeing it recognized is sufficient reward. M. Lecoq softly enjoyed his triumph, while his hearers wondered at his perspicacity. A rapid chain of reasoning had shown him not only Trémorel’s thoughts, but also the means he had employed to accomplish his purpose.

Guespin’s astonishment soon changed to anger. He asked himself how this man could have been informed of things which he had every reason to believe were secret. Lecoq continued:

“Since I have told you the woman’s name, tell me now, how and why the count gave you a five-hundred-franc note.”

“It was just as I was going out. The count had no change, and did not want to send me to Orcival for it. I was to bring back the rest.”

“And why didn’t you rejoin your companions at the wedding in the Batignolles?”

No answer.

“What was the errand which you were to do for the count?”

Guespin hesitated. His eyes wandered from one to another of those present, and he seemed to discover an ironical expression on all the faces. It occurred to him that they were making sport of him, and had set a snare into which he had fallen. A great despair took possession of him.

“Ah,” cried he, addressing M. Lecoq, “you have deceived me. You have been lying so as to find out the truth. I have been such a fool as to answer you, and you are going to turn it all against me.”

“What? Are you going to talk nonsense again?”

“No, but I see just how it is, and you won’t catch me again! Now I’d rather die than say a word.”

The detective tried to reassure him; but he added:

“Besides, I’m as sly as you; I’ve told you