On hearing these words, Lecoq became so frightfully pale that Father Absinthe, fearing he was going to faint, raised his arms to prevent his falling. A chair stood close by, however, and on this Lecoq allowed himself to drop. “Joseph Couturier,” he faltered, evidently unconscious of what he was saying. “Joseph Couturier! an escaped convict!”
The superintendent certainly did not understand Lecoq’s agitation any better than Father Absinthe’s discomfited air.
“You have reason to be proud of your work; your success will make a sensation this morning,” he repeated. “You have captured a famous prize. I can see Gevrol’s nose now when he hears the news. Only yesterday he was boasting that he alone was capable of securing this dangerous rascal.”
After such an irreparable failure as that which had overtaken Lecoq, the unintended irony of these compliments was bitter in the extreme. The superintendent’s words of praise fell on his ears like so many blows from a sledge hammer.
“You must be mistaken,” he eventually remarked, rising from his seat and summoning all his energy to his assistance. “That man is not Couturier.”
“Oh, I’m not mistaken; you may be quite sure of that. He fully answers the description appended to the circular ordering his capture, and even the little finger of his left hand is lacking, as is mentioned.”
“Ah! that’s a proof indeed!” groaned Father Absinthe.
“It is indeed. And I know another one more conclusive still. Couturier is an old acquaintance of mine. I have had him in custody before; and he recognized me last night just as I recognized him.”
After this further argument was impossible; hence it was in an entirely different tone that Lecoq remarked: “At least, my friend, you will allow me to address a few questions to your prisoner.”
“Oh! as many as you like. But first of all, let us bar the door and place two of my men before it. This Couturier has a fondness for the open air, and he wouldn’t hesitate to dash out our brains if he only saw a chance of escape.”