He was about to retire, when, on glancing round the room, he noticed a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a girl, and which accompanied her everywhere. “That, no doubt, contains the solution of the mystery,” he said to himself. This was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates of passion without pausing to reflect. Seeing the keys on the mantelpiece, he seized them, and endeavoured to find one that would fit the lock of the casket. The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers. With feverish haste, Martial examined their contents. He had thrown aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows: “Search made for Madame de Sairmeuse’s child. Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18—.” Martial’s brain reeled. A child! His wife had a child! But he read on: “For the services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ——. For expenses attending my own journey, ——. Divers gratuities, ——. Etc., etc.” The total amounted to six thousand francs; and it was receipted “Chefteux.” With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the casket’s contents, and found a miserably-written note, which said; “Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the affair at the Borderie.” Then there were several more of Chefteux’s bills; next, a letter from Aunt Medea, in which she spoke of prison and remorse; and, finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escorval, drawn up by the cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.
The truth was as clear as daylight. Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength enough to place the letters in the casket again, and restore it to its place. Then he tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for support. “It was she who murdered Marie-Anne,” he murmured. He was confounded, terror-stricken, by the perfidy of this woman who was his wife—by her criminal audacity, cool calculation and assurance, and her marvellous powers of dissimulation.
Still he swore he would discover everything, either through the duchess or through the Widow Chupin; and he ordered Otto to procure him a costume such as was generally worn by the frequenters of the Poivriere. He did not know how soon he might have need of it. This happened early in February, and from that moment Blanche did not take a single step without being watched. Not a letter reached her that her husband had not previously read. And she had not the slightest suspicion of the constant supervision to which she was subjected. Martial did not leave his room; he pretended to be ill. He felt he could not meet his wife and remain silent. He remembered the oath of vengeance which he had sworn over Marie-Anne’s lifeless form only too well. However, the watch which Otto kept over the duchess, and the perusal of the letters addressed to her, did not yield any fresh information, and for this reason: Polyte Chupin had been arrested on a charge of theft, and this accident caused a delay in the execution of Lacheneur’s plans.
But at last the latter prepared everything for Shrove Sunday, the 20th of February. On the previous day, in accordance with her instructions, the Widow Chupin wrote to the duchess that she must come to the Poivriere on Sunday night at eleven o’clock. On that same evening, Jean was to meet his accomplices at a ball at the Rainbow—a wine-shop bearing a very unenviable reputation—and give them their final instructions. These accomplices were to open the scene; he was only to appear at the denouement. “All is well arranged; the mechanism will work of its own accord,” he said to himself. But, as is already known, the “mechanism,” as he styled it, failed to act.
On receiving the Widow Chupin’s summons, Blanche revolted for a moment. The lateness of the hour, the distance, the isolation of the appointed meeting place, frightened her. Still, she was obliged to submit, and on Sunday evening she furtively left the house, accompanied by Camille, the same maid who had been present when Aunt Medea died. The duchess and Camille were attired like women of the lowest order, and felt no fear of being recognized. And yet a man was watching who quickly followed them. This was Martial. He had perused the note appointing this rendezvous even before his wife, and had disguised himself in the costume Otto had procured for him—that of a labourer about the quays. Then, in hope of making himself absolutely unrecognizable, he had soiled and matted his hair and beard; his hands were grimed with dirt; and he really seemed to belong to the class of which he wore the attire. Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany his master; but the duke refused, remarking that his revolver would prove quite sufficient protection. He knew Otto well enough, however, to feel certain he would disobey him.
Ten o’clock was striking when Blanche and Camille left the house, and it did not take them five minutes to reach the Rue Taranne. There was only one cab on the stand, which they at once hired. This circumstance drew from Martial an oath worthy of his costume. But he reflected that, since he knew where to find his wife, a slight delay in obtaining a vehicle would not matter. He soon found one, and, thanks to a gratuity of ten francs, the driver started off to the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horse could go. However, the duke had scarcely alighted before he heard the rumbling of another vehicle which pulled up abruptly a little distance behind. “Otto is evidently following me,” he thought. And he then started across the open space in the direction of the Poivriere. The prevailing silence and absence of life were rendered still more oppressive by a chill fog which heralded an approaching thaw. Martial stumbled and slipped at almost every step he took over the rough, snow-covered ground; but at last through the mist he distinguished a building in the distance. This was the Poivriere. The light burning inside, filtered through the heart-shaped apertures cut in the upper part of the shutters, and it almost seemed as if a pair of lurid eyes were striving to peer through the fog.
Could it really be possible that the Duchess de Sairmeuse was there! Martial cautiously approached the window, and clinging to the hinges of the shutters, raised himself up so that he could glance through one of the apertures. Yes, there was no mistake. His wife and Camille were seated at a table before a large punch-bowl, in the company of two ragged, leering scoundrels, and a soldier of youthful appearance. In the centre of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a small glass in her hand. She was talking with great volubility, and punctuating her sentences with occasional sips of brandy. The impression this scene produced on Martial was so acute that his hold relaxed and he dropped to the ground. A ray of pity stole into his soul, for he vaguely realized the frightful suffering which had been the murderess’s chastisement. But he wished for another glance, and so once more he lifted himself up to the opening and looked in. The old woman had disappeared; the young soldier had risen from the table, and was talking and gesticulating earnestly. Blanche and Camille were listening to him with the closest attention. The two men who were sitting face to face, with their elbows on the table, were looking at each other; and Martial saw them exchange a significant glance. He was not wrong. The scoundrels were plotting “a rich haul.” Blanche, who had dressed herself with much care, and to render her disguise perfect had encased her feet in large coarse shoes, that were causing her well nigh intolerable agony—Blanche had neglected to remove her superb diamond ear-rings. She had forgotten them, but Lacheneur’s accomplices had noticed them, and were now glancing at them with eyes that glittered more brilliantly than the diamonds themselves. While awaiting Lacheneur’s coming, these wretches as had been agreed upon, were playing the part which he had imposed upon them. For this, and their assistance afterwards, they were to receive a certain sum of money. But they were thinking that this sum did not represent a quarter of the value of these jewels, and their looks only too plainly said: “What if we could secure them and go off before Lacheneur comes!” The temptation was too strong to be resisted. One of the scoundrels suddenly rose, and, seizing the duchess by the back of the neck, forced her head down on the table. The diamonds would have been at once torn from her ears if it had not been for Camille, who bravely came to her mistress’s assistance. Martial could endure no more. He sprang to the door of the hovel, opened it, and entered, bolting it behind him.
“Martial!” “Monsieur le Duc!” cried Blanche and Camille in the same breath, for, despite his disguise, they had both recognised him. Their exclamations turned the momentary stupor of their assailants into fury; and both ruffians precipitated themselves on Martial, determined to kill him. But, springing on one side, the duke avoided them. He had his revolver in his hand; he fired twice, and both the scoundrels fell. However, he was not yet safe, for the young soldier rushed forward and attempted to disarm him. Then began a furious struggle, in the midst of which Martial did not leave off crying, in a panting voice, “Fly! Blanche, fly! Otto is not far off. The name—save the honour of the name!”
The two women obeyed him, making their escape through the back door, which opened into the garden; and they had scarcely done so, before a violent knocking was heard at the front entry. The police were coming! This increased Martial’s frenzy; and in a supreme effort to free himself from his assailant, he hurled him backwards so violently, that, striking his head against a corner of the table, the young soldier fell on to the floor, and lay there to all appearance dead. In the meanwhile, the Widow Chupin, who had hastened from the room above on hearing the uproar, was shrieking on the staircase, while at the front door a voice was crying: “Open in the name of the law!” Martial might have fled; but if he fled, the duchess might be captured, for he would certainly be pursued. He saw the peril at a glance, and determined to remain. Shaking the Widow Chupin by the arm, he said to her, in an imperious voice: “If you know how to hold your tongue you shall have a hundred thousand francs.” Then, drawing a table before the door opening into the back room, he intrenched himself behind it as behind a rampart, and awaited the enemy’s approach.
The next moment the door was forced open, and a squad of police agents, headed by Inspector Gevrol, entered the room. “Surrender!” cried the inspector.