Martial did not move; his revolver was turned towards the intruders. “If I can parley with them and hold them in check only two minutes, all may yet be saved,” he thought. He obtained the required delay; then throwing his weapon to the ground, he was about to bound through the back door, when a police agent, who had gone round to the rear of the house, seized him about the body, and threw him to the floor. From this side he expected only assistance, hence he exclaimed: “Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”
In the twinkling of an eye he was bound; and two hours later he was an inmate of the station-house at the Place d’Italie. He had played his part so perfectly, that he had deceived even Gevrol. His assailants were dead, and he could rely upon the Widow Chupin. But he knew that the trap had been set for him by Jean Lacheneur; and he read a whole volume of suspicion in the eyes of the young officer who had cut off his retreat, and who was called Lecoq by his companions.
XL.
THE Duke de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain superior to circumstances. He was possessed of vast experience, and great natural shrewdness. His mind was quick to act, and fertile in resources. But when he found himself immured in the damp and loathsome station-house at the Place d’Italie, after the terrible scene we have just recalled, he felt inclined to relinquish all hope. He knew that justice does not trust to appearances, and that when an investigating magistrate finds himself in presence of a mystery, he does not rest until he has fathomed it. He knew only too well, moreover, that if his identity was established, the authorities would endeavour to discover the reason that had led him to the Poivriere; now he could scarcely doubt but what this reason would soon be discovered, and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the duchess’s guilt, would undoubtedly be made public. This meant the Assize Court for the woman who bore his name—imprisonment, perhaps execution, at all events, a frightful scandal, dishonour, eternal disgrace! And the power he had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage to him now, when his past position was filled by his political adversaries. Among them were two personal enemies, whose vanity he once had wounded, and who had never forgiven him. They would certainly not neglect the present opportunity for revenge. At the thought of such an ineffaceable stain on the great name of Sairmeuse, which was his pride and glory, reason almost forsook him. “My God, inspire me,” he murmured. “How shall I save the honour of the name?”
He saw but one chance of salvation—death. They now believed him to be one of the miserable loafers who haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the only way!” he thought, and he was indeed endeavouring to find some means of committing suicide, when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell. A few moments afterwards the door was opened and a man was thrust in—a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on to the floor, and then began to snore. The new arrival was apparently only some vulgar drunkard.
A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope touched Martial’s heart—no, he must be mistaken—and yet—yes, certainly this drunkard was Otto—Otto in disguise, and almost unrecognizable! It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself on a bench, as if to sleep, and in such a way that his head was close to Otto’s. “The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant.
“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me everything will be discovered.”
“Have you told them who you are?”
“No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond.”
“You must continue to personate that character.”