This was the cry of honesty; not the counsel of a casuist.
“I also should be silent,” Lecoq at last replied; “and it seems to me that, in holding my tongue, I should not fail in my duty as a magistrate.”
On hearing these words, Tabaret rubbed his hands together, as he always did when he was about to present some overwhelming argument. “Such being the case,” said he, “do me the favor to tell me what pretext you would invent in order to withdraw from the case without exciting suspicion?”
“I don’t know; I can’t say now. But if I were placed in such a position I should find some excuse—invent something—”
“And if you could find nothing better,” interrupted Tabaret, “you would adopt M. d’Escorval’s expedient; you would pretend you had broken a limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow, you would sacrifice your arm; it would be less inconvenient than your leg; and you wouldn’t be condemned to seclusion for several months.”
“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that M. d’Escorval knows who May really is.”
Old Tirauclair turned so suddenly in his bed that his forgotten gout drew from him a terrible groan. “Can you doubt?” he exclaimed. “Can you possibly doubt it? What proofs do you want then? What connection do you see between the magistrate’s fall and the prisoner’s attempt at suicide? I wasn’t there as you were; I only know the story as you have told it to me. I can’t look at the facts with my own eyes, but according to your statements, which are I suppose correct, this is what I understand. When M. d’Escorval has completed his task at the Widow Chupin’s house, he comes to the prison to examine the supposed murderer. The two men recognize each other. Had they been alone, mutual explanations might have ensued, and affairs taken quite a different turn. But they were not alone; a third party was present—M. d’Escorval’s clerk. So they could say nothing. The magistrate asked a few common-place questions, in a troubled voice, and the prisoner, terribly agitated, replied as best he could. Now, after leaving the cell, M. d’Escorval no doubt said to himself: ‘I can’t investigate the offenses of a man I hate!’ He was certainly terribly perplexed. When you tried to speak to him, as he was leaving the prison, he harshly told you to wait till the next day; and a quarter of an hour later he pretended to fall down and break his leg.”
“Then you think that M. d’Escorval and May are enemies?” inquired Lecoq.
“Don’t the facts prove that beyond a doubt?” retorted Tabaret. “If they had been friends, the magistrate might have acted in the same manner; but then the prisoner wouldn’t have attempted to strangle himself. But thanks to you; his life was saved; for he owes his life to you. During the night, confined in a straight-waistcoat, he was powerless to injure himself. Ah! how he must have suffered that night! What agony! So, in the morning, when he was conducted to the magistrate’s room for examination, it was with a sort of frenzy that he dashed into the dreaded presence of his enemy. He expected to find M. d’Escorval there, ready to triumph over his misfortunes; and he intended to say: ‘Yes, it’s I. There is a fatality in it. I have killed three men, and I am in your power. But there is a mortal feud between us, and for that very reason you haven’t the right to prolong my tortures! It would be infamous cowardice if you did so.’ However, instead of M. d’Escorval, he sees M. Segmuller. Then what happens? He is surprised, and his eyes betray the astonishment he feels when he realizes the generosity of his enemy—an enemy from whom he had expected no indulgence. Then a smile comes to his lips—a smile of hope; for he thinks, since M. d’Escorval has not betrayed his secret, that he may be able to keep it, and emerge, perhaps, from this shadow of shame and crime with his name and honor still untarnished.”
Old Tabaret paused, and then, with a sudden change of tone and an ironical gesture, he added: “And that—is my explanation.”