fall—­for I have found the marks of it on the carpet.  He hears strange noises, such as never before assailed his ears; he thinks he hears walking in the next room; the floor creaks.  Is his wife really dead; will she not suddenly rise up, run to the window, and scream for help?  Beset by these terrors, he returns to the bedroom, seizes his dagger, and again strikes the poor countess.  But his hand is so unsteady that the wounds are light.  You have observed, doctor, that all these wounds take the same direction.  They form right angles with the body, proving that the victim was lying down when they were inflicted.  Then, in the excess of his frenzy, he strikes the body with his feet, and his heels form the contusions discovered by the autopsy.”

M. Lecoq paused to take breath.  He not only narrated the drama, he acted it, adding gesture to word; and each of his phrases made a scene, explained a fact, and dissipated a doubt.  Like all true artists who wrap themselves up in the character they represent, the detective really felt something of the sensations which he interpreted, and his expressive face was terrible in its contortions.

“That,” he resumed, “is the first act of the drama.  An irresistible prostration succeeds the count’s furious passion.  The various circumstances which I am describing to you are to be noticed in nearly all great crimes.  The assassin is always seized, after the murder, with a horrible and singular hatred against his victim, and he often mutilates the body.  Then comes the period of a prostration so great, of torpor so irresistible, that murderers have been known literally to go to sleep in the blood, that they have been surprised sleeping, and that it was with great difficulty that they were awakened.  The count, when he has frightfully disfigured the poor lady, falls into an arm-chair; indeed, the cloth of one of the chairs has retained some wrinkles, which shows that someone had sat in it.  What are then the count’s thoughts?  He reflects on the long hours which have elapsed, upon the few hours which remain to him.  He reflects that he has found nothing; that he will hardly have time, before day, to execute his plans for turning suspicion from him, and assure his safety, by creating an impression that he, too, has been murdered.  And he must fly at once—­fly, without that accursed paper.  He summons up his energies, rises, and do you know what he does?  He seizes a pair of scissors and cuts off his long, carefully cultivated beard.”

“Ah!” interrupted M. Plantat, “that’s why you examined the portrait so closely.”

M. Lecoq was too intent on following the thread of his deductions to note the interruption.