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If it is difficult to extort a confession from a man interested inpreserving silence and persuaded that no proofs can be produced againsthim, it is a yet more arduous task to make a woman, similarly situated,speak the truth. As they say at the Palais de Justice, one might as welltry to make the devil confess.
The examination of the Widow Chupin had been conducted with the greatestpossible care by M. Segmuller, who was as skilful in managing hisquestions as a tried general in maneuvering his troops.
However, all that he had discovered was that the landlady of thePoivriere was conniving with the murderer. The motive of her connivancewas yet unknown, and the murderer's identity still a mystery. Both M.Segmuller and Lecoq were nevertheless of the opinion that the old hagknew everything. "It is almost certain," remarked the magistrate, "thatshe was acquainted with the people who came to her house--with thewomen, the victims, the murderer--with all of them, in fact. I ampositive as regards that fellow Gustave--I read it in her eyes. I amalso convinced that she knows Lacheneur--the man upon whom the dyingsoldier breathed vengeance--the mysterious personage who evidentlypossesses the key to the enigma. That man must be found."
"Ah!" replied Lecoq, "and I will find him even if I have to questionevery one of the eleven hundred thousand men who constantly walk thestreets of Paris!"
This was promising so much that the magistrate, despite hispreoccupation, could not repress a smile.
"If this old woman would only decide to make a clean breast of it at hernext examination!" remarked Lecoq.
"Yes. But she won't."
The young detective shook his head despondently. Such was his ownopinion. He did not delude himself with false hopes, and he had noticedbetween the Widow Chupin's eyebrows those furrows which, according tophysiognomists, indicate a senseless, brutish obstinacy.
"Women never confess," resumed the magistrate; "and even when theyseemingly resign themselves to such a course they are not sincere. Theyfancy they have discovered some means of misleading their examiner. Onthe contrary, evidence will crush the most obstinate man; he gives upthe struggle, and confesses. Now, a woman scoffs at evidence. Show herthe sun; tell her it's daytime; at once she will close her eyes andsay to you, 'No, it's night.' Male prisoners plan and combine differentsystems of defense according to their social positions; the women, onthe contrary, have but one system, no matter what may be their conditionin life. They deny everything, persist in their denials even when theproof against them is overwhelming, and then they cry. When I worry theChupin with disagreeable questions, at her next examination, you may besure she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears."
In his impatience, M. Segmuller angrily stamped his foot. He had manyweapons in his arsenal; but none strong enough to break a woman's doggedresistance.
"If I only understood the motive that guides this old hag!" hecontinued. "But not a clue! Who can tell me what powerful interestinduces her to remain silent? Is it her own cause that she is defending?Is she an accomplice? Is it certain that she did not aid the murderer inplanning an ambuscade?"
"Yes," responded Lecoq, slowly, "yes; this supposition very naturallypresents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir, such a theorywould prove that the idea we entertained a short time since isaltogether false. If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the murderer isnot the person we have supposed him to be; he is simply the man he seemsto be."
This argument apparently convinced M. Segmuller. "What is your opinion?"he asked.
The young detective had formed his opinion a long while ago. But howcould he, a humble police agent, venture to express any decided viewswhen the magistrate hesitated? He understood well enough that hisposition necessitated extreme reserve; hence, it was in the most modesttone that he replied: "Might not the pretended drunkard have dazzledMother Chupin's eyes with the prospect of a brilliant reward? Might henot have promised her a considerable sum of money?"
He paused; Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just returned.
Behind him stood a private of the Garde de Paris who remainedrespectfully on the threshold, his heels in a straight line, his righthand raised to the peak of his shako, and his elbow on a level with hiseyes, in accordance with the regulations.
"The governor of the Depot," said the soldier, "sends me to inquire ifhe is to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary confinement; she complainsbitterly about it."
M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. "Certainly," he murmured, as ifreplying to an objection made by his own conscience; "certainly, itis an undoubted aggravation of suffering; but if I allow this womanto associate with the other prisoners, she will certainly find someopportunity to communicate with parties outside. This must not be; theinterests of justice and truth must be considered first." The thoughtembodied in these last words decided him. "Despite her complaints theprisoner must be kept in solitary confinement until further orders," hesaid.
The soldier allowed his right hand to fall to his side, he carriedhis right foot three inches behind his left heel, and wheeled around.Goguet, the smiling clerk, then closed the door, and, drawing a largeenvelope from his pocket, handed it to the magistrate. "Here is acommunication from the governor of the Depot," said he.
The magistrate broke the seal, and read aloud, as follows:
"I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precautionwith the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding with theexamination of the prisoner, May. Since his unsuccessful attempt atsuicide, this prisoner has been in such a state of excitement that wehave been obliged to keep him in a strait-waistcoat. He did not closehis eyes all last night, and the guards who watched him expected everymoment that he would become delirious. However, he did not utter a word.When food was offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, andI should not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himselfto death. I have rarely seen a more determined criminal. I think himcapable of any desperate act."
"Ah!" exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared, "If I werein your place, sir, I would only let him in here with an escort ofsoldiers."
"What! you--Goguet, you, an old clerk--make such a proposition! Can itbe that you're frightened?"
"Frightened! No, certainly not; but--"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlativeconfidence in his own muscles; "Am I not here?"
If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article offurniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisonerand himself. For purposes of convenience he usually did place himselfbehind it; but after Goguet's display of fear, he would have blushedto have taken the slightest measure of self-protection. Accordingly,he went and sat down by the fireplace--as he had done a few momentspreviously while questioning the Widow Chupin--and then ordered hisdoor-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this word"alone."
A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and theprisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room. Goguetturned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, readyto spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite. Butwhen the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and lookedaround him. "Where is the magistrate?" he inquired, in a hoarse voice.
"I am the magistrate," replied M. Segmuller.
"No, the other one."
"What other one?"
"The one who came to question me last evening."
"He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell downand broke his leg."
"Oh!"
"And I am to take his place."
The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation. Excitement hadseemingly given way to stupor. His features, hitherto contracted withanger, now relaxed. He grew pale and tottered, as if about to fall.
"Compose yourself," said the magistrate in a benevolent tone; "if youare too weak to remain standing, take a seat."
Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered hisself-possession. A momentary gleam flashed from
his eyes. "Many thanksfor your kindness," he replied, "but this is nothing. I felt a slightsensation of dizziness, but it is over now."
"Is it long since you have eaten anything?"
"I have eaten nothing since that man"--and so saying he pointed toLecoq--"brought me some bread and wine at the station house."
"Wouldn't you like to take something?"
"No--and yet--if you would be so kind--I should like a glass of water."
"Will you not have some wine with it?"
"I should prefer pure water."
His request was at once complied with. He drained a first glassful ata single draft; the glass was then replenished and he drank again, thistime, however, more slowly. One might have supposed that he was drinkingin life itself. Certainly, when he laid down the empty glass, he seemedquite another man.
Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who appear before ourinvestigating magistrates come prepared with a more or less completeplan of defense, which they have conceived during their preliminaryconfinement. Innocent or guilty, they have resolved, on playing somepart or other, which they begin to act as soon as they cross thethreshold of the room where the magistrate awaits them.
The moment they enter his presence, the magistrate needs to bring allhis powers of penetration into play; for such a culprit's first attitudeas surely betrays his plan of defense as an index reveals a book'scontents. In this case, however, M. Segmuller did not think thatappearances were deceitful. It seemed evident to him that the prisonerwas not feigning, but that the excited frenzy which marked his entrancewas as real as his after stupor.
At all events, there seemed no fear of the danger the governor of theDepot had spoken of, and accordingly M. Segmuller seated himself at hisdesk. Here he felt stronger and more at ease for his back being turnedto the window, his face was half hidden in shadow; and in case of need,he could, by bending over his papers, conceal any sign of surprise ordiscomfiture.
The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the full light, and not amovement of his features, not the fluttering of an eyelid could escapethe magistrate's attention. He seemed to have completely recoveredfrom his indisposition; and his features assumed an expression whichindicated either careless indifference, or complete resignation.
"Do you feel better?" asked M. Segmuller.
"I feel very well."
"I hope," continued the magistrate, paternally, "that in future you willknow how to moderate your excitement. Yesterday you tried to destroyyourself. It would have been another great crime added to many others--acrime which--"
With a hasty movement of the hand, the prisoner interrupted him. "Ihave committed no crime," said he, in a rough, but no longer threateningvoice. "I was attacked, and I defended myself. Any one has a right to dothat. There were three men against me. It was a great misfortune; andI would give my right hand to repair it; but my conscience does notreproach me--that much!"
The prisoner's "that much," was a contemptuous snap of his finger andthumb.
"And yet I've been arrested and treated like an assassin," he continued."When I saw myself interred in that living tomb which you call a secretcell, I grew afraid; I lost my senses. I said to myself: 'My boy,they've buried you alive; and it is better to die--to die quickly,if you don't wish to suffer.' So I tried to strangle myself. My deathwouldn't have caused the slightest sorrow to any one. I have neitherwife nor child depending upon me for support. However, my attempt wasfrustrated. I was bled; and then placed in a strait-waistcoat, as if Iwere a madman. Mad! I really believed I should become so. All nightlong the jailors sat around me, like children amusing themselves bytormenting a chained animal. They watched me, talked about me, andpassed the candle to and fro before my eyes."
The prisoner talked forcibly, but without any attempt at oratoricaldisplay; there was bitterness but not anger in his tone; in short, hespoke with all the seeming sincerity of a man giving expression to somedeep emotion or conviction. As the magistrate and the detective heardhim speak, they were seized with the same idea. "This man," theythought, "is very clever; it won't be easy to get the better of him."
Then, after a moment's reflection, M. Segmuller added aloud: "Thisexplains your first act of despair; but later on, for instance, eventhis morning, you refused to eat the food that was offered you."
As the prisoner heard this remark, his lowering face suddenlybrightened, he gave a comical wink, and finally burst into a heartylaugh, gay, frank, and sonorous.
"That," said he, "is quite another matter. Certainly, I refused all theyoffered me, and now I will tell you why. As I had my hands confined inthe strait-waistcoat, the jailor tried to feed me just as a nurse triesto feed a baby with pap. Now I wasn't going to submit to that, so Iclosed my lips as tightly as I could. Then he tried to force my mouthopen and push the spoon in, just as one might force a sick dog'sjaws apart and pour some medicine down its throat. The deuce takehis impertinence! I tried to bite him: that's the truth, and if I hadsucceeded in getting his finger between my teeth, it would have stayedthere. However, because I wouldn't be fed like a baby, all the prisonofficials raised their hands to heaven in holy horror, and pointed atme, saying: 'What a terrible man! What an awful rascal!'"
The prisoner seemed to thoroughly enjoy the recollection of the scene hehad described, for he now burst into another hearty laugh, to the greatamazement of Lecoq, and the scandal of Goguet, the smiling clerk.
M. Segmuller also found it difficult to conceal his surprise. "You aretoo reasonable, I hope," he said, at last, "to attach any blame to thesemen, who, in confining you in a strait-waistcoat, were merely obeyingthe orders of their superior officers with the view of protecting youfrom your own violent passions."
"Hum!" responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious. "I do blamethem, however, and if I had one of them in a corner--But, never mind, Ishall get over it. If I know myself aright, I have no more spite in mycomposition than a chicken."
"Your treatment depends on your own conduct," rejoined M. Segmuller,"If you will only remain calm, you shan't be put in a strait-waistcoatagain. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and conductyourself properly."
The murderer sadly shook his head. "I shall be very prudent hereafter,"said he, "but it is terribly hard to stay in prison with nothing to do.If I had some comrades with me, we could laugh and chat, and the timewould slip by; but it is positively horrible to have to remain alone,entirely alone, in that cold, damp cell, where not a sound can beheard."
The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The word "comrades"had attracted his attention, and he proposed to ask the prisoner toexplain it at a later stage of the inquiry.
"If you are innocent," he remarked, "you will soon be released: but itis necessary to prove your innocence."
"What must I do to prove it?"
"Tell the truth, the whole truth: answer my questions honestly withoutreserve."
"As for that, you may depend upon me." As he spoke the prisoner liftedhis hand, as if to call upon God to witness his sincerity.
But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: "Prisoners do not take theoath," said he.
"Indeed!" ejaculated the man with an astonished air, "that's strange!"
Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little attention to theprisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his attitude, his toneof voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller had, moreover, donehis utmost to set the culprit's mind at ease, to quiet all possiblesuspicion of a trap, and his inspection of the prisoner's person led himto believe that this result had been attained.
"Now," said he, "you will give me your attention; and do not forget thatyour liberty depends upon your frankness. What is your name?"
"May."
"What is your Christian name?"
"I have none."
"That is impossible."
"I have been told that already three times since yesterday," rejoinedthe prisoner impatiently. "And yet it's the truth. If I were a liar, Icould easily tell you that my name was Peter,
James, or John. Butlying is not in my line. Really, I have no Christian name. If it were aquestion of surnames, it would be quite another thing. I have had plentyof them."
"What were they?"
"Let me see--to commence with, when I was with Father Fougasse, I wascalled Affiloir, because you see--"
"Who was this Father Fougasse?"
"The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah! he could boast of a menagerieand no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents as big round as yourthigh, parrakeets of every color under the sun. Ah! it was a wonderfulcollection. But unfortunately--"
Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? It was so hard to decide,that M. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in doubt. As for Goguet, thesmiling clerk, he chuckled to himself as his pen ran over the paper.
"Enough," interrupted the magistrate. "How old are you?"
"Forty-four or forty-five years of age."
"Where were you born?"
"In Brittany, probably."
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in thisreply.
"I warn you," said he, severely, "that if you go on in this way yourchances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each ofyour answers is a breach of propriety."
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingleddistress and anxiety was apparent in his face. "Ah! I meant no offense,sir," he sighed. "You questioned me, and I replied. You will see thatI have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history ofthe whole affair."
"When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened," so runs anold proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed,seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in aninvestigating magistrate's presence, without betraying his intentions orhis thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret heis endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded,understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent.Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded theirdefense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutelycompelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmostcaution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; andthey are very sparing of details.
In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. Hedid not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the mediumof accomplishing his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like thosewho are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are substitutingfor the truth. Under other circumstances, this fact would have been astrong argument in his favor.
"You may tell your own story, then," said M. Segmuller in answer to theprisoner's indirect request.
The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction heexperienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his ownway. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. Hesat himself dawn, threw his head back, passed his tongue over his lipsas if to moisten them, and said: "Am I to understand that you wish tohear my history?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, FatherTringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was goingfrom Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two largevehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia,and the members of the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren,he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of aditch. 'I must go and see what that is,' he said to his wife. He stoppedthe horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in, went to the ditch,picked up the object he had noticed, and uttered a cry of surprise. Youwill ask me what he had found? Ah! good heavens! A mere trifle. He hadfound your humble servant, then about six months old."
With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his audience.
"Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She was akind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, and said: 'He's astrong, healthy child; and we'll keep him since his mother has been sowicked as to abandon him by the roadside. I will teach him; and in fiveor six years he will be a credit to us.' They then asked each other whatname they should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May,they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that May hasbeen my name from that day to this."
The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another of hislisteners, as if seeking some sign of approval. None being forthcoming,he proceeded with his story.
"Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant of the law. Hedid not inform the authorities that he had found a child, and, for thisreason, although I was living, I did not legally exist, for, to havea legal existence it is necessary that one's name, parentage, andbirthplace should figure upon a municipal register.
"When I grew older, I rather congratulated myself on Father Tringlot'sneglect. 'May, my boy,' said I, 'you are not put down on any governmentregister, consequently there's no fear of your ever being drawn as asoldier.' I had a horror of military service, and a positive dread ofbullets and cannon balls. Later on, when I had passed the proper age forthe conscription, a lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds oftrouble if I sought a place on the civil register so late in the day;and so I decided to exist surreptitiously. And this is why I have noChristian name, and why I can't exactly say where I was born."
If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists haveasserted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice, gesture, glance,expression, all were in accord; not a word of his long story had rungfalse.
"Now," said M. Segmuller, coldly, "what are your means of subsistence?"
By the prisoner's discomfited mien one might have supposed that hehad expected to see the prison doors fly open at the conclusion of hisnarrative. "I have a profession," he replied plaintively. "The one thatMother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have livedby it in France and other countries."
The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner's armor. "Yousay you have lived in foreign countries?" he inquired.
"Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson's company, Itraveled most of the time in England and Germany."
"Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are sowhite and soft?"
Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from hislap and examined them with evident complacency. "It is true they arepretty," said he, "but this is because I take good care of them andscarcely use them."
"Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?"
"Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public,in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as thesaying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certainknack--"
M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever heconsidered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. "In thatcase," said he, "will you give me a specimen of your talent?"
"Ah, ha!" laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest onthe part of the magistrate. "Ah, ha!"
"Obey me, if you please," insisted M. Segmuller.
The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once assumed adifferent expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence,conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on themagistrate's desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in ashrill falsetto voice: "Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold yourpeace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, towitness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaledin the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and ininnumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!"
"That is sufficient," interrupted the magistrate. "You can speak likethat in France; but what do you say in Germany?"
"Of course, I use the language of that country."
"Let me hear, then!" retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue wasGerman.
The prisoner ceased his mocking manner
, assumed an air of comicalimportance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak asfollows, in very emphatic tones: "Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichenObrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zumerstenmal aufgefuhrt--Genovesa, oder--"
This opening of the prisoner's German harangue may be thus rendered:"With the permission of the local authorities there will now bepresented before the honorable citizens, for the first time--Genevieve,or the--"
"Enough," said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to conceal hischagrin, and added: "We will send for an interpreter to tell us whetheryou speak English as fluently."
On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward. "I understandEnglish," said he.
"Very well. You hear, prisoner?"
But the man was already transformed. British gravity and apathy werewritten upon his features; his gestures were stiff and constrained,and in the most ponderous tones he exclaimed: "Walk up! ladies andgentlemen, walk up! Long life to the queen and to the honorable mayorof this town! No country, England excepted--our glorious England!--couldproduce such a marvel, such a paragon--" For a minute or two longer hecontinued in the same strain.
M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by his hands.Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not conceal hisastonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone found the scene amusing.
Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1 Page 10
