When the Count saw this apparatus at work, the inventor using a heavily-padded glove to prevent being wounded by the claw, he objected to it strenuously, remarking that he had no right to brand a criminal. That was the province of Justice. He also argued that it would be wrong from a humanitarian standpoint. A poor wretch thus branded could only get rid of it by a horrible self-mutilation. If he failed in his endeavor, it might close the door of repentance forever against him, and class him permanently among the enemies of the social order. “Worse than that,” said the Count, “suppose some member of {130} my family by inadvertence, or through some fatal mistake, should fall a victim to our stern precautions; and then
”
“You are quite right!” said Houdin. “I had not thought of those objections. I was carried away by my enthusiasm as an inventor. You are quite right! I will alter the apparatus at once.”
In the place of the branding contrivance, he inserted a kind of cat’s-claw, which would make a slight scratch on the hand—a mere superficial wound, readily healed. The Count was satisfied with the alteration, and the apparatus was secretly fixed to the desk in the nobleman’s bed-room.
In order to stimulate the cupidity of the robber, the Count drew considerable money from his bankers. He even made a pretence of leaving Paris on a trip to a short distance. But the bait did not take. Sixteen days passed away. The Count had almost despaired of catching the culprit, when one morning while reading in his library, which was some little distance from the bed-room, he heard the report of a pistol.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The robber at last.” Picking up the first weapon to hand, a battle axe from a stand of ancestral armor near by, he ran quickly to the bed-room. There stood his trusted valet, Bernard, who had been in his household for many years.
“What are you doing here?” asked the Count.
With great coolness and audacity, Bernard explained that he had been brought thither by the noise of the explosion, and had just seen a man making his escape down the back stairs. The Count rushed down the stairs only to find the door locked. A frightful thought overcame him: “Could Bernard be the thief?” He returned to the bed-room. The valet, he noticed, kept his right hand behind him. The Count dragged it forcibly in sight, and saw that it was covered with blood.
“Infamous scoundrel!” said the nobleman, as he flung the man from him in disgust.