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

“What a misfortune for my town, this crime!” said he to M. Domini. “What shame! Orcival has lost its reputation.”

“I know nothing of the affair,” returned the judge. “The gendarme who went for me knew little about it.”

M. Courtois recounted at length what his investigation had discovered, not forgetting the minutest detail, dwelling especially on the excellent precautions which he had had the sagacity to take. He told how the conduct of the Bertauds had at first awakened his suspicions; how he had detected them, at least in a pointblank lie; how, finally, he had determined to arrest them. He spoke standing, his head thrown back, with wordy emphasis. The pleasure of speaking partially rewarded him for his recent distress.

“And now,” he concluded, “I have just ordered the most exact search, so that doubtless we shall find the count’s body. Five men, detailed by me, and all the people of the house, are searching the park. If their efforts are not crowned with success, I have here some fishermen who will drag the river.”

M. Domini held his tongue, only nodding his head from time to time, as a sign of approbation. He was studying, weighing the details told him, building up in his mind a plan of proceeding.

“You have acted wisely,” said he, at last. “The misfortune is a great one, but I agree with you that we are on the track of the criminals. These poachers, or the gardener who has disappeared, have something, perhaps, to do with this abominable crime.”

Already, for some minutes, M. Plantat had rather awkwardly concealed some signs of impatience.

“The misfortune is,” said he, “that if Guespin is guilty, he will not be such a fool as to show himself here.”

“Oh, we’ll find him,” returned M. Domini. “Before leaving Corbeil, I sent a despatch to the prefecture of police at Paris, to ask for a police agent, who will doubtless be here shortly.”

“While waiting,” proposed the mayor, “perhaps you would like to see the scene of the crime?”

M. Domini made a motion as if to rise; then sat down again.

“In fact, no,” said he; “we will see nothing till the agent arrives. But I must have some information concerning the Count and Countess de Trémorel.”

The worthy mayor again triumphed.

“Oh, I can give it to you,” answered he quickly, “better than anybody. Ever since their advent here, I may say, I have been one of their best friends. Ah, sir, what charming people! excellent, and affable, and devoted⁠—”

And at the remembrance of all his friends’ good qualities, M. Courtois choked in his utterance.

“The Count de Trémorel,” he resumed, “was a man of thirty-four years, handsome, witty to the tips of his nails. He had sometimes, however, periods of melancholy, during which he did not wish to see anybody; but he was ordinarily so affable, so polite, so obliging; he knew so well how to be noble without haughtiness, that everybody here esteemed and loved him.”

“And the countess?” asked the judge of instruction.

“An angel, Monsieur, an angel on earth! Poor lady! You will soon see her remains, and surely you would not guess that she has been the queen of the country, by reason of her beauty.”

“Were they rich?”

“Yes; they must have had, together, more than a hundred thousand francs income⁠—oh, yes, much more; for within five or six months the count, who had not the bucolic tastes of poor Sauvresy, sold some lands to buy consols.”

“Have they been married long?”

M. Courtois scratched his head; it was his appeal to memory.

“Faith,” he answered, “it was in September of last year; just six months ago. I married them myself. Poor Sauvresy had been dead a year.”

The judge of instruction looked up from his notes with a surprised air.

“Who is this Sauvresy,” he inquired, “of whom you speak?”

Papa Plantat, who was furiously biting his nails in a corner, apparently a stranger to what was passing, rose abruptly.

“Monsieur Sauvresy,” said he, “was the first husband of Madame de Trémorel. My friend Courtois has omitted this fact.”

“Oh!” said the mayor, in a wounded tone, “it seems to me that under present circumstances⁠—”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the judge. “It is a detail such as may well become valuable, though apparently foreign to the case, and at the first view, insignificant.”

“Hum!” grunted Papa Plantat. “Insignificant⁠—foreign to it!”

His tone was so singular, his air so strange, that M. Domini was struck by it.

“Do you share,” he asked, “the opinion of the mayor regarding the Trémorels?”

Plantat shrugged his shoulders.

“I haven’t any opinions,” he answered: “I live alone⁠—see nobody; don’t disturb myself about anything. But⁠—”

“It seems to me,” said M. Courtois, “that nobody should be better acquainted with people who were my friends than I myself.”

“Then, you are telling the story clumsily,” said M. Plantat, dryly.

The judge of instruction pressed him to explain himself. So M. Plantat, without more ado, to the great scandal of the mayor, who was thus put into the background, proceeded to dilate upon the main features of the count’s and countess’s biography.

“The Countess de Trémorel, née Bertha Lechaillu, was the daughter of a poor village schoolmaster. At eighteen, her beauty was famous for three leagues around, but as she only had for dowry her great blue eyes and blond ringlets, but few serious lovers presented themselves. Already Bertha, by advice of her family, had resigned herself to take a place as a governess⁠—a sad position for so beautiful a maid⁠—when the heir of one of the richest domains in the neighborhood happened to see her, and fell in love with her.

“Clement Sauvresy was just thirty; he had no longer any family, and possessed nearly a hundred thousand livres income from lands absolutely free of incumbrance. Clearly, he had the best right in the world to choose a wife to his taste. He did not hesitate. He asked for Bertha’s hand, won it, and, a month after, wedded her at midday, to the great scandal of the neighboring aristocracy, who went about saying: ‘What folly! what good is there in being rich, if it is not to double one’s fortune by a