Dufresne was furious to find that he was to be arrested and that Edouard would not accompany him to prison.
“You have made a mistake, messieurs,” said he; “I have done nothing to be arrested for.”
“You are Dufresne, who lived with Madame Dolban?”
“You are mistaken, my name is Vermontré.”
“Oh! that’s the truth,” said Lampin, trying to stand up without the help of the gendarmes; “it’s at least two months that he’s been calling himself that.”
“It’s of no use for you to try to deny it. The police have been watching you for a long while, and when we heard of the murder of which you are accused, it was not difficult for us to find you, despite all the false names you have assumed.”
“Murder! murder!” exclaimed Lampin; “one moment, messieurs, I haven’t got anything to do with that. I thought that you came about the matter of the scrap of paper, which is only a trifle. But a murder! Damnation! let us understand each other. I am as white as snow, and Fluet, who’s over there in the corner, will tell you as much. We only worked on the writings, we two.”
“On the writings?”
“Yes; when I say we—why it was La Valeur, who stands shaking over there, that did most of it; but he writes mighty well! Ah! that was a good job! And the old Jew tumbled into it; so that we’ve eaten and drunk the stuff all up. If you would like to join us, I’m your man.”
The sergeant listened attentively, and Edouard’s terror, combined with Lampin’s fragments of sentences, led him to guess that those gentry were the authors of some rascality of a different sort from the affair which had brought him thither. The crime committed upon Madame Dolban was the occasion of that midnight visit, undertaken because they wished to make sure of Dufresne; the forgery had only been discovered the day before, and the police had not yet found the tracks of the culprits.