The Mystery of Orcival - Émile Gaboriau (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📗

when, finding unexpected opposition, he undertook to impose his will upon them, and recall the recalcitrant members to their duty.

His speech, in fragments, penetrated to the dining-room. According as he turned to the right or to the left, his voice was clear and distinct, or was lost in space. He said:

“Fellow-citizens, an atrocious crime, unheard of before in our commune, has shocked our peaceable and honest neighborhood. I understand and excuse your feverish emotion, your natural indignation. As well as you, my friends, more than you⁠—I cherished and esteemed the noble Count de Trémorel, and his virtuous wife. We mourn them together⁠—”

“I assure you,” said Dr. Gendron to M. Plantat, “that the symptoms you describe are not uncommon after pleurisy. From the acute state, the inflammation passes to the chronic state, and becomes complicated with pneumonia.”

“But nothing,” pursued the mayor, “can justify a curiosity, which by its importunate attempts to be satisfied, embarrasses the investigation, and is, at all events, a punishable interference with the cause of justice. Why this unwonted gathering? Why these rumors and noises? These premature conjectures?”

“There were several consultations,” said M. Plantat, “which did not have favorable results. Sauvresy suffered altogether strange and unaccountable tortures. He complained of troubles so unwonted, so absurd, if you’ll excuse the word, that he discouraged all the conjectures of the most experienced physicians.”

“Was it not R⁠⸺, of Paris, who attended him?”

“Exactly. He came daily, and often remained overnight. Many times I have seen him ascending the principal street of the village, with troubled countenance, as he went to give his prescription to the apothecary.”

“Be wise enough,” cried M. Courtois, “to moderate your just anger; be calm; be dignified.”

“Surely,” continued Dr. Gendron, “your apothecary is an intelligent man; but you have at Orcival a fellow who quite outdoes him, a fellow who knows how to make money; one Robelot⁠—”

“Robelot, the bonesetter?”

“That’s the man. I suspect him of giving consultations, and prescribing sub rosa. He is very clever. In fact I educated him. Five or six years ago, he was my laboratory boy, and even now I employ him when I have a delicate operation on hand⁠—”

The doctor stopped, struck by the alteration in the impassible Plantat’s features.

“What is the matter, my friend?” he asked. “Are you ill?”

The judge left his notes, to look at him. “Why,” said he, “Monsieur Plantat is very pale⁠—”

But M. Plantat speedily resumed his habitual expression.

“ ’Tis nothing,” he answered, “really nothing. With my abominable stomach, as soon as I change my hour of eating⁠—”

Having reached his peroration, M. Courtois raised his voice.

“Return,” said he, “to your peaceable homes, your quiet avocations. Rest assured the law protects you. Already justice has begun its work; two of the criminals are in its power, and we are on the track of their accomplices.”

“Of all the servants of the château,” remarked M. Plantat, “there remains not one who knew Sauvresy. The domestics have one by one been replaced.”

“No doubt,” answered the doctor, “the sight of the old servants would be disagreeable to Monsieur de Trémorel.”

He was interrupted by the mayor, who re-entered, his eyes glowing, his face animated, wiping his forehead.

“I have let the people know,” said he, “the indecency of their curiosity. They have all gone away. They were anxious to get at Philippe Bertaud, the brigadier says; public opinion has a sharp scent.”

Hearing the door open, he turned, and found himself face to face with a man whose features were scarcely visible, so profoundly did he bow, his hat pressed against his breast.

“What do you wish?” sternly asked M. Courtois. “By what right have you come in here?⁠—Who are you?”

The man drew himself up.

“I am Monsieur Lecoq,” he replied, with a gracious smile. “Monsieur Lecoq of the detective force, sent by the prefect of police in reply to a telegram, for this affair.”

This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of instruction.

In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were, insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it does not admit it possible that the type should be departed from. What is a doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat. A gentleman with a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals, can only be a banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry liver, with a peaked hat, a velvet vest, and enormous ruffles. By virtue of this rule, the detective of the prefecture ought to have an eye full of mystery, something suspicious about him, a negligence of dress, and imitation jewelry. The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure that he can scent a detective at twenty paces a big man with mustaches, and a shining felt hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar of hair, dressed in a black, threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned up on account of the entire absence of linen. Such is the type. But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as he entered the dining-room at Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a detective. True, M. Lecoq can assume whatever air he pleases. His friends declare that he has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he resumes when he enters his own house, and which he retains by his own fireside, with his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is certain, is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses; that he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor moulds clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.

“So,” said the judge of instruction, “the prefect has sent you to me, in case certain investigations become necessary.”

“Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service.”

M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with bad pomade, encircled a pallid face. His big eyes seemed congealed within their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips, which, in parting, discovered a