Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

Duc de Sairmeuse had disappeared for two months⁠—the period of May’s imprisonment, all Paris would have known of it⁠—and so⁠—”

“You are dreaming,” interrupted Tabaret. “Why with his wife and his valet de chambre for accomplices, the duke could absent himself for a year if he liked, and yet all his servants would believe him to be in the house.”

“I admit that,” said Lecoq, at last; “but unfortunately, there is one circumstance which completely upsets the theory we have built up so laboriously.”

“And what is that if you please?”

“If the man who took part in the broil at the Poivrière had been the Duc de Sairmeuse, he would have disclosed his name⁠—he would have declared that, having been attacked, he had only defended himself⁠—and his name alone would have opened the prison doors. Instead of that, what did the prisoner do? He attempted to kill himself. Would a grand seigneur, like the Duc de Sairmeuse, to whom life must be a perpetual enchantment, have thought of committing suicide?”

A mocking whistle from the old Tabaret interrupted the speaker. “You seem to have forgotten the last sentence in his biography: ‘M. Sairmeuse leaves behind him ill-will and hatred.’ Do you know the price he might have been compelled to pay for his liberty! No⁠—no more do I. To explain his presence at the Poivrière, and the presence of a woman, who was perhaps his wife, who knows what disgraceful secrets he would have been obliged to reveal? Between shame and suicide, he chose suicide. He wished to save his name and honor intact.”

Old Tirauclair spoke with such vehemence that even Father Absinthe was deeply impressed, although, to tell the truth, he had understood but little of the conversation.

As for Lecoq, he rose very pale, his lips trembling a little. “You will excuse my hypocrisy, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said in an agitated voice. “I only offered these last objections for form’s sake. I had thought of what you now say, but I distrusted myself, and I wanted to hear you say it yourself.” Then with an imperious gesture, he added: “Now, I know what I have to do.”

Old Tabaret raised his hands toward heaven with every sign of intense dismay. “Unhappy man!” he exclaimed; “do you think of going to arrest the Duc de Sairmeuse! Poor Lecoq! Free, this man is almost omnipotent, and you, an infinitesimal agent of police, would be shattered as easily as glass. Take care, my boy, don’t attack the duke. I wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. You might imperil your life.”

The young detective shook his head. “Oh! I don’t deceive myself,” said he. “I know that the duke is far beyond my reach⁠—at least for the present. But he will be in my power again, the day I learn his secret. I don’t fear danger; but I know, that if I am to succeed, I must conceal myself, and so I will. Yes, I will remain in the shade until I can unveil this mystery; but then I shall reappear in my true character. And if May be really the Duc de Sairmeuse, I shall have my revenge.”

Part II The Honor of the Name I

On the first Sunday in the month of August, 1815, at ten o’clock precisely⁠—as on every Sunday morning⁠—the sacristan of the parish church at Sairmeuse sounded the three strokes of the bell which warn the faithful that the priest is ascending the steps of the altar to celebrate high mass.

The church was already more than half full, and from every side little groups of peasants were hurrying into the churchyard. The women were all in their bravest attire, with cunning little fichus crossed upon their breasts, broad-striped, brightly colored skirts, and large white coifs.

Being as economical as they were coquettish, they came barefooted, bringing their shoes in their hands, but put them on reverentially before entering the house of God.

But few of the men entered the church. They remained outside to talk, seating themselves in the porch, or standing about the yard, in the shade of the century-old elms.

For such was the custom in the hamlet of Sairmeuse.

The two hours which the women consecrated to prayer the men employed in discussing the news, the success or the failure of the crops; and, before the service ended, they could generally be found, glass in hand, in the barroom of the village inn.

For the farmers for a league around, the Sunday mass was only an excuse for a reunion, a sort of weekly bourse.

All the cures who had been successively stationed at Sairmeuse had endeavored to put an end to this scandalous habit, as they termed it; but all their efforts had made no impression upon country obstinacy.

They had succeeded in gaining only one concession. At the moment of the elevation of the Host, voices were hushed, heads uncovered, and a few even bowed the knee and made the sign of the cross.

But this was the affair of an instant only, and conversation was immediately resumed with increased vivacity.

But today the usual animation was wanting.

No sounds came from the little knots of men gathered here and there, not an oath, not a laugh. Between buyers and sellers, one did not overhear a single one of those interminable discussions, punctuated with the popular oaths, such as: “By my faith in God!” or “May the devil burn me!”

They were not talking, they were whispering together. A gloomy sadness was visible upon each face; lips were placed cautiously at the listener’s ear; anxiety could be read in every eye.

One scented misfortune in the very air. Only a month had elapsed since Louis XVIII had been, for the second time, installed in the Tuileries by a triumphant coalition.

The earth had not yet had time to swallow the sea of blood that flowed at Waterloo; twelve hundred thousand foreign soldiers desecrated the soil of France; the Prussian General Muffling was Governor of Paris.

And the peasantry of Sairmeuse trembled with indignation and