In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add another word. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge!
He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval. The next morning at about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the latter’s house. “M. d’Escorval is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant to the young detective’s inquiry, “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”
Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the adjoining room, however, only separated from the study by velvet hangings, came a sound of stifled exclamations, of sobs mingled with kisses. Not knowing whether to remain or to retire, the young police-agent stood for a moment undecided; when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the carpet. Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive which ran as follows:
“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son—your son, Maurice. I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated poor Marie-Anne’s inheritance. Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from poison administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-Anne! she would have been far more terribly avenged had not an accident which happened to me saved the Duke and the Duchess de Sairmeuse from the snare into which I had drawn them.
“Jean Lacheneur.”
Lecoq stood as if petrified. Now he understood the terrible drama enacted in the Widow Chupin’s cabin. “I must go to Sairmeuse at once,” he said to himself; “there I can discover everything.” He left the room without seeing M. d’Escorval, and even successfully resisted the temptation to take Lacheneur’s letter with him.
Exactly a month had transpired since Blanche’s death. His grace the Duke de Sairmeuse was reclining on a divan in his library, reading one of his favourite authors, when Otto his valet de chambre came in to inform him that a messenger was below, charged with delivering into his grace’s own hands a letter from M. d’Escorval.
Martial sprang to his feet. “It is impossible,” he exclaimed; and then he quickly added: “Let the messenger come up.”
A tall man, with florid complexion, and red hair and beard, timidly handed the duke a letter. Martial instantly broke the seal, and read:
“I saved you, monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner.