The doctor was paler than the corpse which lay under the
sheet. His usually calm features betrayed great distress. This
change could not have been caused by the task in which he had been
engaged. Of course it was a painful one; but M. Gendron was one
of those experienced practitioners who have felt the pulse of every
human misery, and whose disgust had become torpid by the most
hideous spectacles. He must have discovered something extraordinary.
"I am going to ask you what you asked me a while ago," said M.
Plantat. "Are you ill or suffering?"
M. Gendron shook his head sorrowfully, and answered, slowly and
emphatically:
"I will answer you, as you did me; 'tis nothing, I am already
better."
Then these two, equally profound, turned away their heads, as if
fearing to exchange their ideas; they doubted lest their looks
should betray them.
M. Lecoq advanced and spoke.
"I believe I know the cause of the doctor's emotion. He has just
discovered that Madame de Tremorel was killed by a single blow, and
that the assassins afterward set themselves to disfiguring the body,
when it was nearly cold."
The doctor's eyes fastened on the detective, with a stupefied
expression.
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