"
No one could tell when M. Lecoq was playing a comedy. He did not
always know, himself. This great artist, devoted to his art,
practised the feigning of all the emotions of the human soul, just
as he accustomed himself to wearing all sorts of costumes. He was
very indignant against the assassins, and gesticulated about in
great excitement; but he never ceased to watch Plantat slyly, and
the last words of the latter made him prick up his ears.
"Let's see the rest, then," said he.
As he followed his worthy comrade to the garden, he renewed his
confidences to the dear defunct.
"Confound this old bundle of mystery! We can't take this obstinate
fellow by surprise, that's clear. He'll give us the word of the
riddle when we have guessed it; not before. He is as strong as we,
my darling; he only needs a little practice. But look you--if he
has found something which has escaped us, he must have previous
information, that we don't know of."
Nothing had been disturbed in the garden.
"See here, Monsieur Lecoq," said the old justice of the peace, as he
followed a winding pathway which led to the river. "It was here that
one of the count's slippers was found; below there, a little to the
right of these geraniums, his silk handkerchief was picked up.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123