“Oh! then you’ve seen him?”
“Seen him? Often, too often?” The Count was evidently a good deal moved.
“I mean the body?”
The Count stole a quick glance at Planard.
“N—no, Monsieur—that is, I mean only for a moment.” Another quick glance at Planard.
“But quite long enough, I fancy, to recognize him?” insinuated that gentleman.
“Of course—of course; instantly—perfectly. What! Pierre de St. Amand? Not know him at a glance? No, no, poor fellow, I know him too well for that.”
“The things I am in search of,” said Monsieur Carmaignac, “would fit in a narrow compass—servants are so ingenious sometimes. Let us raise the lid.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” said the Count, peremptorily, advancing to the side of the coffin, and extending his arm across it. “I cannot permit that indignity—that desecration.”
“There shall be none, sir—simply the raising of the lid; you shall remain in the room. If it should prove as we all hope, you shall have the pleasure of one other look, really the last, upon your beloved kinsman.”
“But, sir, I can’t.”
“But, Monsieur, I must.”
“But, besides, the thing, the turnscrew, broke when the last screw was turned; and I give you my sacred honour there is nothing but the body in this coffin.”
“Of course Monsieur le Comte believes all that; but he does not know so well as I the legerdemain in use among servants, who are accustomed to smuggling. Here, Philippe, you must take off the lid of that coffin.”
The Count protested; but Philippe—a man with a bald head, and a smirched face, looking like a working blacksmith—placed on the floor a leather bag of tools, from which, having looked at the coffin, and picked with his nail at the screw-heads, he selected a turnscrew, and, with a few deft twirls at each of the screws, they stood up like little rows of mushrooms, and the lid was raised. I saw the light, of which I thought I had seen my last, once more; but the axis of vision remained fixed. As I was reduced to the cataleptic state in a position nearly perpendicular, I continued looking straight before me, and thus my gaze was now fixed upon the ceiling. I saw the face of Carmaignac leaning over me with a curious frown. It seemed to me that there was no recognition in his eyes. Oh, heaven! that I could have uttered were it but one cry! I saw the dark, mean mask of the little Count staring down at me from the other side; the face of the pseudo-marquis also peering at me, but not so full in the line of vision; there were other faces also.
“I see, I see,” said Carmaignac, withdrawing. “Nothing of the kind there.”
“You will be good enough to direct your man to readjust the lid of the coffin, and to fix the screws,” said the Count, taking courage; “and—and—really the funeral must proceed. It is not fair to the people who have but moderate fees for night-work, to keep them hour after hour beyond the time.”
“Count de St. Alyre, you shall go in a very few minutes. I will direct, just now, all about the coffin.”
The Count looked toward the door, and there saw a gendarme; and two or three more grave and stalwart specimens of the same force were also in the room. The Count was very uncomfortably excited; it was growing insupportable.
“As this gentleman makes a difficulty about my attending the obsequies of my kinsman, I will ask you, Planard, to accompany the funeral in my stead.”
“In a few minutes,” answered the incorrigible Carmaignac. “I must first trouble you for the key that opens that press.”
He pointed direct at the press, in which the clothes had just been locked up.
“I—I have no objection,” said the Count—“none, of course; only they have not been used for an age. I’ll direct someone to look for the key.”
“If you have not got it about you, it is quite unnecessary. Philippe, try your skeleton-keys with that press. I want it opened. Whose clothes are these?” inquired Carmaignac when, the press having been opened, he took out the suit that had been placed there scarcely two minutes since.
“I can’t say,” answered the Count. “I know nothing of the contents of that press. A roguish servant, named Lablais, whom I dismissed about a year ago, had the key. I have not seen it open for ten years or more. The clothes are probably his.
“Here are visiting cards, see, and here a marked pocket-handkerchief—‘R. B.’ upon it. He must have stolen them from a person named Beckett—R. Beckett. ‘Mr. Beckett, Berkley Square,’ the card says; and, my faith! here’s a watch and a bunch of seals; one of them with the initials ‘R. B.’ upon it. That servant, Lablais, must have been a consummate rogue!”
“So he was; you are right, sir.”
“It strikes me that he possibly stole these clothes,” continued Carmaignac, “from the man in the coffin, who, in that case, would be Monsieur Beckett, and not Monsieur de St. Amand. For, wonderful to relate, Monsieur, the watch is still going! That man in the coffin, I believe, is not dead, but simply drugged. And for having robbed and intended to murder him, I arrest you, Nicolas de la Marque, Count de St. Alyre.”
In another moment the old villain was a prisoner. I heard his discordant voice break quaveringly into sudden vehemence and volubility; now croaking—now shrieking, as he oscillated between protests, threats, and impious appeals to the God who will “judge the secrets of men!” And thus lying and raving, he was removed from the room, and placed in the same coach with his beautiful and abandoned accomplice, already arrested; and, with two gendarmes sitting beside them, they were immediately driving at a rapid pace towards the Conciergerie.
There were now added to the general chorus two voices, very different in quality; one was that of the gasconading Colonel Gaillarde, who had with difficulty been kept in the background up to this; the other
