Part 10 (1/2)
”Where were you born?”
”In Brittany, probably.”
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in this reply.
”I warn you,” said he, severely, ”that if you go on in this way your chances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each of your answers is a breach of propriety.”
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. ”Ah! I meant no offense, sir,” he sighed. ”You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of the whole affair.”
”When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened,” so runs an old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed, seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an investigating magistrate's presence, without betraying his intentions or his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded, understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent. Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and they are very sparing of details.
In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. He did not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the medium of accomplis.h.i.+ng his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like those who are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are subst.i.tuting for the truth. Under other circ.u.mstances, this fact would have been a strong argument in his favor.
”You may tell your own story, then,” said M. Segmuller in answer to the prisoner's indirect request.
The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction he experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his own way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. He sat himself dawn, threw his head back, pa.s.sed his tongue over his lips as if to moisten them, and said: ”Am I to understand that you wish to hear my history?”
”Yes.”
”Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, Father Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was going from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two large vehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia, and the members of the company. Well, soon after pa.s.sing Chatelaudren, he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of a ditch. 'I must go and see what that is,' he said to his wife. He stopped the horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in, went to the ditch, picked up the object he had noticed, and uttered a cry of surprise. You will ask me what he had found? Ah! good heavens! A mere trifle. He had found your humble servant, then about six months old.”
With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his audience.
”Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She was a kind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, and said: 'He's a strong, healthy child; and we'll keep him since his mother has been so wicked as to abandon him by the roadside. I will teach him; and in five or six years he will be a credit to us.' They then asked each other what name they should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May, they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that May has been my name from that day to this.”
The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another of his listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. None being forthcoming, he proceeded with his story.
”Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant of the law. He did not inform the authorities that he had found a child, and, for this reason, although I was living, I did not legally exist, for, to have a legal existence it is necessary that one's name, parentage, and birthplace should figure upon a munic.i.p.al register.
”When I grew older, I rather congratulated myself on Father Tringlot's neglect. 'May, my boy,' said I, 'you are not put down on any government register, consequently there's no fear of your ever being drawn as a soldier.' I had a horror of military service, and a positive dread of bullets and cannon b.a.l.l.s. Later on, when I had pa.s.sed the proper age for the conscription, a lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds of trouble if I sought a place on the civil register so late in the day; and so I decided to exist surrept.i.tiously. And this is why I have no Christian name, and why I can't exactly say where I was born.”
If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists have a.s.serted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice, gesture, glance, expression, all were in accord; not a word of his long story had rung false.
”Now,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, ”what are your means of subsistence?”
By the prisoner's discomfited mien one might have supposed that he had expected to see the prison doors fly open at the conclusion of his narrative. ”I have a profession,” he replied plaintively. ”The one that Mother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have lived by it in France and other countries.”
The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner's armor. ”You say you have lived in foreign countries?” he inquired.
”Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson's company, I traveled most of the time in England and Germany.”
”Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are so white and soft?”
Far from being embarra.s.sed, the prisoner raised his hands from his lap and examined them with evident complacency. ”It is true they are pretty,” said he, ”but this is because I take good care of them and scarcely use them.”
”Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?”
”Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public, in turning a compliment, in making things pa.s.s off pleasantly, as the saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain knack-”
M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. ”In that case,” said he, ”will you give me a specimen of your talent?”
”Ah, ha!” laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on the part of the magistrate. ”Ah, ha!”
”Obey me, if you please,” insisted M. Segmuller.
The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once a.s.sumed a different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence, conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on the magistrate's desk, and, flouris.h.i.+ng it wildly, began as follows, in a shrill falsetto voice: ”Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold your peace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!”
”That is sufficient,” interrupted the magistrate. ”You can speak like that in France; but what do you say in Germany?”
”Of course, I use the language of that country.”
”Let me hear, then!” retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was German.
The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, a.s.sumed an air of comical importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as follows, in very emphatic tones: ”Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum erstenmal aufgefuhrt-Genovesa, oder-”
This opening of the prisoner's German harangue may be thus rendered: ”With the permission of the local authorities there will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for the first time-Genevieve, or the-”
”Enough,” said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to conceal his chagrin, and added: ”We will send for an interpreter to tell us whether you speak English as fluently.”
On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward. ”I understand English,” said he.
”Very well. You hear, prisoner?”
But the man was already transformed. British gravity and apathy were written upon his features; his gestures were stiff and constrained, and in the most ponderous tones he exclaimed: ”Walk up! ladies and gentlemen, walk up! Long life to the queen and to the honorable mayor of this town! No country, England excepted-our glorious England!-could produce such a marvel, such a paragon-” For a minute or two longer he continued in the same strain.
M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by his hands. Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not conceal his astonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone found the scene amusing.
XI
The governor of the Depot, a functionary who had gained the reputation of an oracle by twenty years' experience in prisons and with prisoners-a man whom it was most difficult to deceive-had advised the magistrate to surround himself with every precaution before examining the prisoner, May.
And yet this man, characterized as a most dangerous criminal, and the very announcement of whose coming had made the clerk turn pale, had proved to be a practical, harmless, and jovial philosopher, vain of his eloquence, a bohemian whose existence depended upon his ability to turn a compliment; in short, a somewhat erratic genius.
This was certainly strange, but the seeming contradiction did not cause M. Segmuller to abandon the theory propounded by Lecoq. On the contrary, he was more than ever convinced of its truth. If he remained silent, with his elbows leaning on the desk, and his hands clasped over his eyes, it was only that he might gain time for reflection.
The prisoner's att.i.tude and manner were remarkable. When his English harangue was finished, he remained standing in the centre of the room, a half-pleased, half-anxious expression on his face. Still, he was as much at ease as if he had been on the platform outside some stroller's booth, where, if one could believe his story, he had pa.s.sed the greater part of his life. It was in vain that the magistrate sought for some indication of weakness on his features, which in their mobility were more enigmatical than the lineaments of the Sphinx.
Thus far, M. Segmuller had been worsted in the encounter. It is true, however, that he had not as yet ventured on any direct attack, nor had he made use of any of the weapons which Lecoq had forged for his use. Still he was none the less annoyed at his defeat, as it was easy to see by the sharp manner in which he raised his head after a few moments' silence. ”I see that you speak three European languages correctly,” said he. ”It is a rare talent.”
The prisoner bowed, and smiled complacently. ”Still that does not establish your ident.i.ty,” continued the magistrate. ”Have you any acquaintances in Paris? Can you indicate any respectable person who will vouch for the truth of this story?”
”Ah! sir, it is seventeen years since I left France.”
”That is unfortunate, but the prosecution can not content itself with such an explanation. What about your last employer, M. Simpson? Who is he?”