“The count finds nothing under the mantel-shelf except the dust, which has retained traces of his fingers.  Then he begins to be anxious.  Where can this paper be, for which he has risked his life?  He grows angry.  How search the locked drawers?  The keys are on the carpet—­I found them among the debris of the tea service—­but he does not see them.  He must have some implement with which to break open everything.  He goes downstairs for a hatchet.  The drunkenness of blood and vengeance is dissipated on the staircase; his terrors begin.  All the dark corners are peopled, now, with those spectres which form the cortege of assassins; he is frightened, and hurries on.  He soon goes up again, armed with a large hatchet—­that found on the second story—­and makes the pieces of wood fly about him.  He goes about like a maniac, rips up the furniture at hazard; but he pursues a desperate search, the traces of which I have followed, among the debris.  Nothing, always nothing!  Everything in the room is topsy-turvy; he goes into his cabinet and continues the destruction; the hatchet rises and falls without rest.  He breaks his own bureau, since he may find something concealed there of which he is ignorant.  This bureau belonged to the first husband—­to Sauvresy.  He takes out all the books in the library, one by one, shakes them furiously, and throws them about the floor.  The infernal paper is undiscoverable.  His distress is now too great for him to pursue the search with the least method.  His wandering reason no longer guides him.  He staggers, without calculation, from one thing to another, fumbling a dozen times in the same drawer, while he completely forgets others just by him.  Then he thinks that this paper may have been hid in the stuffing of a chair.  He seizes a sword, and to be certain, he slashes up the drawing-room chairs and sofas and those in the other rooms.”

M. Lecoq’s voice, accent, gestures, gave a vivid character to his recital.  The hearer might imagine that he saw the crime committed, and was present at the terrible scenes which he described.  His companions held their breath, unwilling by a movement to distract his attention.

“At this moment,” pursued he, “the count’s rage and terror were at their height.  He had said to himself, when he planned the murder, that he would kill his wife, get possession of the letter, execute his plan quickly, and fly.  And now all his projects were baffled!  How much time was being lost, when each minute diminished the chances of escape!  Then the probability of a thousand dangers which had not occurred to him, entered his mind.  What if some friend should suddenly arrive, expecting his hospitality, as had occurred twenty times?  What if a passer-by on the road should notice a light flying from room to room?  Might not one of the servants return?  When he is in the drawing-room, he thinks he hears someone ring at the gate; such is his terror, that he lets his candle