"The countess is now dead," pursued M.Lecoq."The assassin's first emotion is one of triumph.He is at last rid of her who was his wife, whom he hated enough to murder her, and to change his happy, splendid, envied existence for a frightful life, henceforth without country, friend, or refuge, proscribed by all nations, tracked by all the police, punishable by the laws of all the world! His second thought is of this letter or paper, this object of small size which he knows to be in his wife's keeping, which he has demanded a hundred times, which she would not give up to him, and which he must have.""Add," interrupted M.Plantat, "that this paper was one of the motives of the crime.
Thecount thinks he knows where it is.He imagines that he can put his hand on it at once.He is mistaken.He looks into all the drawers and bureaus used by his wife - and finds nothing.He searches every corner, he lifts up the shelves, overturns everything in the chamber - nothing.An idea strikes him.Is this letter under the mantel - shelf? By a turn of the arm he lifts it - down the clock tumbles and stops.It is not yet half-past ten.""Yes," murmured the doctor, "the clock betrays that.""The count finds nothing under the mantel-shelf except the dust, which has retained traces of his fingers.Then he begins to be anxious.Where can this paper be, for which he has risked his life?
He grows angry.How search the locked drawers? The keys are on the carpet - I found them among the debris of the tea service - but he does not see them.He must have some implement with which to break open everything.He goes downstairs for a hatchet.The drunkenness of blood and vengeance is dissipated on the staircase; his terrors begin.All the dark corners are peopled, now, with those spectres which form the cortege of assassins; he is frightened, and hurries on.He soon goes up again, armed with a large hatchet - that found on the second story - and makes the pieces of wood fly about him.
He goes about like a maniac, rips up the furniture at hazard; but he pursues a desperate search, the traces of which I have followed, among the debris.Nothing, always nothing! Everything in the room is topsy-turvy; he goes into his cabinet and continues the destruction; the hatchet rises and falls without rest.He breaks his own bureau, since he may find something concealed there of which he is ignorant.This bureau belonged to the first husband - to Sauvresy.He takes out all the books in the library, one by one, shakes them furiously, and throws them about the floor.The infernal paper is undiscoverable.His distress is now too great for him to pursue the search with the least method.His wandering reason no longer guides him.He staggers, without calculation, from one thing to another, fumbling a dozen times in the same drawer, while he completely forgets others just by him.Then he thinks that this paper may have been hid in the stuffing of a chair.He seizes a sword, and to be certain, he slashes up the drawing-room chairs and sofas and those in the other rooms.
M.Lecoq's voice, accent, gestures, gave a vivid character to his recital.The hearer might imagine that he saw the crime committed, and was present at the terrible scenes which he described.His companions held their breath, unwilling by a movement to distract his attention.
"At this moment," pursued he, "the count's rage and terror were at their height.He had said to himself, when he planned the murder, that he would kill his wife, get possession of the letter, execute his plan quickly, and fly.And now all his projects were baffled!
How much time was being lost, when each minute diminished the chances of escape! Then the probability of a thousand dangers which had not occurred to him, entered his mind.What if some friend should suddenly arrive, expecting his hospitality, as had occurred twenty times? What if a passer-by on the road should notice a light flying from room to room? Might not one of the servants return? When he is in the drawing-room, he thinks he hears someone ring at the gate;such is his terror, that he lets his candle fall - for I have found the marks of it on the carpet.He hears strange noises, such as never before assailed his ears; he thinks he hears walking in the next room; the floor creaks.Is his wife really dead; will she not suddenly rise up, run to the window, and scream for help? Beset by these terrors, he returns to the bedroom, seizes his dagger, and again strikes the poor countess.But his hand is so unsteady that the wounds are light.You have observed, doctor, that all these wounds take the same direction.They form right angles with the body, proving that the victim was lying down when they were inflicted.Then, in the excess of his frenzy, he strikes the body with his feet, and his heels form the contusions discovered by the autopsy."M.Lecoq paused to take breath.He not only narrated the drama, he acted it, adding gesture to word; and each of his phrases made a scene, explained a fact, and dissipated a doubt.Like all true artists who wrap themselves up in the character they represent, the detective really felt something of the sensations which he interpreted, and his expressive face was terrible in its contortions.
