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

“If you go and resist this prejudice established for ages, and say that a detective is honest and cannot be otherwise, that he is tenfold more honest than any merchant or notary, because he has tenfold the temptations, without the benefits of his honesty; if you say this, they’ll laugh in your face. I could get together tomorrow, with impunity, without any risk, at least a million. Who would mistrust it? I have a conscience, it’s true; but a little consideration for these things would not be unpleasant. When it would be so easy for me to divulge what I know of those who have been obliged to trust me, or things which I have surprised, there is perhaps a merit in holding my tongue. And still, the first man who should come along tomorrow⁠—a defaulting banker, a ruined merchant, a notary who has gambled on ’Change⁠—would feel himself compromised by walking up the boulevard with me! A policeman⁠—fie! But old Tabaret used to say to me, that the contempt of such people was only one form of fear.”

M. Plantat was dismayed. How could he, a man of delicacy, prudence and finesse, have committed such an awkward mistake? He had just cruelly wounded this man, who was so well disposed toward him, and he had everything to fear from his resentment.

“Far be it from me, dear friend,” he commenced, “to intend the offence you imagine. You have misunderstood an insignificant phrase, which I let escape carelessly, and had no meaning at all.”

M. Lecoq grew calmer.

“Perhaps so. You will forgive my being so susceptible, as I am more exposed to insults than most people. Let’s leave the subject, which is a painful one, and return to Trémorel.”

M. Plantat was just thinking whether he should dare to broach his projects again, and he was singularly touched by M. Lecoq’s delicately resuming the subject of them.

“I have only to await your decision,” said the justice of the peace.

“I will not conceal from you,” resumed M. Lecoq, “that you are asking a very difficult thing, and one which is contrary to my duty, which commands me to search for Trémorel, to arrest him, and deliver him up to justice. You ask me to protect him from the law⁠—”

“In the name of an innocent creature whom you will thereby save.”

“Once in my life I sacrificed my duty. I could not resist the tears of a poor old mother, who clung to my knees and implored pardon for her son. Today I am going to exceed my right, and to risk an attempt for which my conscience will perhaps reproach me. I yield to your entreaty.”

“Oh, my dear Lecoq, how grateful I am!” cried M. Plantat, transported with joy.

But the detective remained grave, almost sad, and reflected.

“Don’t let us encourage a hope which may be disappointed,” he resumed. “I have but one means of keeping a criminal like Trémorel out of the courts; will it succeed?”

“Yes, yes. If you wish it, it will!”

M. Lecoq could not help smiling at the old man’s faith.

“I am certainly a clever detective,” said he. “But I am only a man after all, and I can’t answer for the actions of another man. All depends upon Hector. If it were another criminal, I should say I was sure. I am doubtful about him, I frankly confess. We ought, above all, to count upon the firmness of Mademoiselle Courtois; can we, think you?”

“She is firmness itself.”

“Then there’s hope. But can we really suppress this affair? What will happen when Sauvresy’s narrative is found? It must be concealed somewhere in Valfeuillu, and Trémorel, at least, did not find it.”

“It will not be found,” said M. Plantat, quickly.

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

M. Lecoq gazed intently at his companion, and simply said:

“Ah!”

But this is what he thought: “At last I am going to find out where the manuscript which we heard read the other night, and which is in two handwritings, came from.”

After a moment’s hesitation, M. Plantat went on:

“I have put my life in your hands, Monsieur Lecoq; I can, of course, confide my honor to you. I know you. I know that, happen what may⁠—”

“I shall keep my mouth shut, on my honor.”

“Very well. The day that I caught Trémorel at the mayor’s, I wished to verify the suspicions I had, and so I broke the seal of Sauvresy’s package of papers.”

“And you did not use them?”

“I was dismayed at my abuse of confidence. Besides, had I the right to deprive poor Sauvresy, who was dying in order to avenge himself, of his vengeance?”

“But you gave the papers to Madame de Trémorel?”

“True; but Bertha had a vague presentiment of the fate that was in store for her. About a fortnight before her death she came and confided to me her husband’s manuscript, which she had taken care to complete. I broke the seals and read it, to see if he had died a violent death.”

“Why, then, didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me hunt, hesitate, grope about⁠—”

“I love Laurence, Monsieur Lecoq, and to deliver up Trémorel was to open an abyss between her and me.”

The detective bowed. “The deuce,” thought he, “the old justice is shrewd⁠—as shrewd as I am. Well, I like him, and I’m going to give him a surprise.”

M. Plantat yearned to question his host and to know what the sole means of which he spoke were, which might be successful in preventing a trial and saving Laurence, but he did not dare to do so.

The detective bent over his desk lost in thought. He held a pencil in his hand and mechanically drew fantastic figures on a large sheet of white paper which lay before him. He suddenly came out of his revery. He had just solved a last difficulty; his plan was now entire and complete. He glanced at the clock.

“Two o’clock,” cried he, “and I have an appointment between three and four with Madame Charman about Jenny.”

“I am at your disposal,” returned his guest.

“All right. When Jenny is disposed