He spoke deliberately, and watched for the effect of what he said in M. Plantat’s countenance.

“Where on earth did this old fellow get all these details?” he asked himself.  “Did he write this narrative, and if not, who did?  How was it, if he had all this information, that he has said nothing?”

M. Plantat appeared to be unconscious of the detective’s searching look.

“I know that Sauvresy’s body was not cold,” said he, “before his murderers began to threaten each other with death.”

“Unhappily for them,” observed Dr. Gendron, “Sauvresy had foreseen the probability of his widow’s using up the rest of the vial of poison.”

“Ah, he was shrewd,” said M. Lecoq, in a tone of conviction, “very shrewd.”

“Bertha could not pardon Hector,” continued M. Plantat, “for refusing to take the revolver and blow his brains out; Sauvresy, you see, had foreseen that.  Bertha thought that if her lover were dead, her husband would have forgotten all; and it is impossible to tell whether she was mistaken or not.”

“And nobody knew anything of this horrible struggle that was going on in the house?”

“No one ever suspected anything.”

“It’s marvellous!”

“Say, Monsieur Lecoq, that is scarcely credible.  Never was dissimulation so crafty, and above all, so wonderfully sustained.  If you should question the first person you met in Orcival, he would tell you, as our worthy Courtois this morning told Monsieur Domini, that the count and countess were a model pair and adored each other.  Why I, who knew—­or suspected, I should say—­what had passed, was deceived myself.”

Promptly as M. Plantat had corrected himself, his slip of the tongue did not escape M. Lecoq.

“Was it really a slip, or not?” he asked himself.

“These wretches have been terribly punished,” pursued M. Plantat, “and it is impossible to pity them; all would have gone rightly if Sauvresy, intoxicated by his hatred, had not committed a blunder which was almost a crime.”

“A crime!” exclaimed the doctor.

M. Lecoq smiled and muttered in a low tone: 

“Laurence.”

But low as he had spoken, M. Plantat heard him.

“Yes, Monsieur Lecoq,” said he severely.  “Yes, Laurence.  Sauvresy did a detestable thing when he thought of making this poor girl the accomplice, or I should say, the instrument of his wrath.  He piteously threw her between these two wretches, without asking himself whether she would be broken.  It was by using Laurence’s name that he persuaded Bertha not to kill herself.  Yet he knew of Tremorel’s passion for her, he knew her love for him, and he knew that his friend was capable of anything.  He, who had so well foreseen all that could serve his vengeance, did not deign to foresee that Laurence might be dishonored; and yet he left her disarmed before this most cowardly and infamous of men!”