Monsieur Lecoq Émile Gaboriau (popular books of all time .txt) 📖

dirt he had scraped from the prisoner’s feet; at the same time depositing beside it a similar parcel of dust collected on the floor of the cell in which the murderer was confined at the Barrière d’Italie.

When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him to collect this soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn from a comparison of the two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had been listening attentively, at once exclaimed: “You are right. It may be that you have discovered a means to confound all the prisoner’s denials. At all events, this is certainly a proof of surprising sagacity on your part.”

So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approvingly. “Capital!” he murmured. “I should never have thought of that.”

While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all the so-called “articles of conviction” in a large drawer, from which they would not emerge until the trial. “Now,” said he, “I understand the case well enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may gain some information from her.”

He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped him with an almost supplicating gesture. “I have one great favor to ask you, sir,” he observed.

“What is it?⁠—speak.”

“I should very much like to be present at this examination. It takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration.”

Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be privately examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by his clerk, it also allows the presence of police agents. Accordingly, M. Segmuller told Lecoq that he might remain. At the same time he rang his bell; which was speedily answered by a messenger.

“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance with my orders?” asked M. Segmuller.

“Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside.”

“Let her come in then.”

An instant later the hostess of the Poivrière entered the room, bowing to the right and to the left. This was not her first appearance before a magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the respect that is due to justice. Accordingly, she had arrayed herself for her examination with the utmost care. She had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth bandeaux, and her garments, although of common material, looked positively neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to buy her⁠—with the money she had about her at the time of her arrest⁠—a black crape cap, and a couple of white pocket-handkerchiefs, intending to deluge the latter with her tears, should the situation call for a pathetic display.

She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere artifices of dress; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression, well fitted, in her opinion, to win the sympathy and indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her fate would depend.

Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she looked so unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivrière, that her customers would scarcely have recognized her. Indeed, an honest old bachelor might have offered her twenty francs a month to take charge of his chambers⁠—solely on the strength of her good looks. But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many hypocrites that he was not deceived for a moment. “What an old actress!” he muttered to himself, and, glancing at Lecoq, he perceived the same thought sparkling in the young detective’s eyes. It is true that the magistrate’s penetration may have been due to some notes he had just perused⁠—notes containing an abstract of the woman’s former life, and furnished by the chief of police at the magistrate’s request.

With a gesture of authority M. Segmuller warned Goguet, the clerk with the silly smile, to get his writing materials ready. He then turned toward the Widow Chupin. “Your name?” he asked in a sharp tone.

“Aspasie Claperdty, my maiden name,” replied the old woman, “and today, the Widow Chupin, at your service, sir;” so saying, she made a low courtesy, and then added: “A lawful widow, you understand, sir; I have my marriage papers safe in my chest at home; and if you wish to send anyone⁠—”

“Your age?” interrupted the magistrate.

“Fifty-four.”

“Your profession?”

“Dealer in wines and spirits outside of Paris, near the Rue du Château-des-Rentiers, just beyond the fortifications.”

A prisoner’s examination always begins with these questions as to individuality, which gives both the magistrate and the culprit time to study each other, to try, as it were, each other’s strength, before joining in a serious struggle; just as two duelists, about to engage in mortal combat, first try a few passes with the foils.

“Now,” resumed M. Segmuller, “we will note your antecedents. Have you not already been found guilty of several offenses?”

The Widow Chupin was too well versed in criminal procedure to be ignorant of those famous records which render the denial of identity such a difficult matter in France. “I have been unfortunate, my good judge,” she whined.

“Yes, several times. First of all, you were arrested on a charge of receiving stolen goods.”

“But it was proved that I was innocent, that my character was whiter than snow. My poor, dear husband had been deceived by his comrades; that was all.”

“Possibly. But while your husband was undergoing his sentence, you were condemned, first to one month’s and then to three months’ imprisonment for stealing.”

“Oh, I had some enemies who did their best to ruin me.”

“Next you were imprisoned for having led some young girls astray.”

“They were good-for-nothing hussies, my kind sir, heartless, unprincipled creatures. I did them many favors, and then they went and related a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have always been too kind and considerate toward others.”

The list of the woman’s offenses was not exhausted, but M. Segmuller thought it useless to continue. “Such is your past,” he resumed. “At the present time your wine-shop is the resort of rogues and criminals. Your son is undergoing his fourth term of imprisonment; and it has been clearly proved that you abetted and assisted him in his evil