                       The Mystery of Orcival

                                 By

                           Emile Gaboriau



                                 I

On Thursday, the 9th of July, 186-, Jean Bertaud and his son, well
known at Orcival as living by poaching and marauding, rose at three
o'clock in the morning, just at daybreak, to go fishing.

Taking their tackle, they descended the charming pathway, shaded
by acacias, which you see from the station at Evry, and which leads
from the burg of Orcival to the Seine.

They made their way to their boat, moored as usual some fifty yards
above the wire bridge, across a field adjoining Valfeuillu, the
imposing estate of the Count de Tremorel.

Having reached the river-bank, they laid down their tackle, and
Jean jumped into the boat to bail out the water in the bottom.

While he was skilfully using the scoop, he perceived that one of
the oar-pins of the old craft, worn by the oar, was on the point
of breaking.

"Philippe," cried he, to his son, who was occupied in unravelling
a net, "bring me a bit of wood to make a new oar-pin."

"All right," answered Philippe.

There was no tree in the field. The young man bent his steps toward
the park of Valfeuillu, a few rods distant; and, neglectful of
Article 391 of the Penal Code, jumped across the wide ditch which
surrounds M. de Tremorel's domain. He thought he would cut off a
branch of one of the old willows, which at this place touch the
water with their drooping branches.

He had scarcely drawn his knife from his pocket, while looking
about him with the poacher's unquiet glance, when he uttered a low
cry, "Father! Here! Father!"

"What's the matter?" responded the old marauder, without pausing
from his work.

"Father, come here!" continued Philippe. "In Heaven's name, come
here, quick!"

Jean knew by the tone of his son's voice that something unusual had
happened. He threw down his scoop, and, anxiety quickening him, in
three leaps was in the park. He also stood still, horror-struck,
before the spectacle which had terrified Philippe.

On the bank of the river, among the stumps and flags, was stretched
a woman's body. Her long, dishevelled locks lay among the
water-shrubs; her dress--of gray silk--was soiled with mire and
blood. All the upper part of the body lay in shallow water, and
her face had sunk in the mud.

"A murder!" muttered Philippe, whose voice trembled.

"That's certain," responded Jean, in an indifferent tone. "But who
can this woman be? Really one would say, the countess."

"We'll see," said the young man. He stepped toward the body; his
father caught him by the arm.

"What would you do, fool?" said he. "You ought never to touch the
body of a murdered person without legal authority."

"You think so?"

"Certainly. There are penalties for it."

"Then, come along and let's inform the Mayor."

"Why? as if people hereabouts were not against us enough already!
Who knows that they would not accuse us--"

"But, father--"

"If we go and inform Monsieur Courtois, he will ask us how and why
we came to be in Monsieur de Tremorel's park to find this out. What
is it to you, that the countess has been killed? They'll find her
body without you. Come, let's go away."

But Philippe did not budge. Hanging his head, his chin resting
upon his palm, he reflected.

"We must make this known," said he, firmly. "We are not savages;
we will tell Monsieur Courtois that in passing along by the park in
our boat, we perceived the body."

Old Jean resisted at first; then, seeing that his son would, if
need be, go without him, yielded.

They re-crossed the ditch, and leaving their fishing-tackle in the
field, directed their steps hastily toward the mayor's house.

Orcival, situated a mile or more from Corbeil, on the right bank
of the Seine, is one of the most charming villages in the environs
of Paris, despite the infernal etymology of its name. The gay and
thoughtless Parisian, who, on Sunday, wanders about the fields,
more destructive than the rook, has not yet discovered this smiling
country. The distressing odor of the frying from coffee-gardens
does not there stifle the perfume of the honeysuckles. The refrains
of bargemen, the brazen voices of boat-horns, have never awakened
echoes there. Lazily situated on the gentle slopes of a bank washed
by the Seine, the houses of Orcival are white, and there are
delicious shades, and a bell-tower which is the pride of the place.
On all sides vast pleasure domains, kept up at great cost, surround
it. From the upper part, the weathercocks of twenty chateaux may
be seen. On the right is the forest of Mauprevoir, and the pretty
country-house of the Countess de la Breche; opposite, on the other
side of the river, is Mousseaux and Petit-Bourg, the ancient domain
of Aguado, now the property of a famous coach-maker; on the left,
those beautiful copses belong to the Count de Tremorel, that large
park is d'Etiolles, and in the distance beyond is Corbeil; that vast
building, whose roofs are higher than the oaks, is the Darblay mill.

The mayor of Orcival occupies a handsome, pleasant mansion, at the
upper end of the village. Formerly a manufacturer of dry goods, M.
Courtois entered business without a penny, and after thirty years
of absorbing toil, he retired with four round millions of francs.

Then he proposed to live tranquilly with his wife and children,
passing the winter at Paris and the summer at his country-house.

But all of a sudden he was observed to be disturbed and agitated.
Ambition stirred his heart. He took vigorous measures to be
forced to accept the mayoralty of Orcival. And he accepted it,
quite in self-defence, as he will himself tell you. This office
was at once his happiness and his despair; apparent despair,
interior and real happiness.

It quite befits him, with clouded brow, to rail at the cares of
power; he appears yet better when, his waist encircled with the
gold-laced scarf, he goes in triumph at the head of the municipal
body.

Everybody was sound asleep at the mayor's when the two Bertauds
rapped the heavy knocker of the door. After a moment, a servant,
half asleep, appeared at one of the ground-floor windows.

"What's the matter, you rascals?" asked he, growling.

Jean did not think it best to revenge an insult which his
reputation in the village too well justified.

"We want to speak to Monsieur the Mayor," he answered. "There is
terrible need of it. Go call him, Monsieur Baptiste; he won't
blame you."

"I'd like to see anybody blame me," snapped out Baptiste.

It took ten minutes of talking and explaining to persuade the
servant. Finally, the Bertauds were admitted to a little man, fat
and red, very much annoyed at being dragged from his bed so early.
It was M. Courtois.

They had decided that Philippe should speak.

"Monsieur Mayor," he said, "we have come to announce to you a great
misfortune. A crime has been committed at Monsieur de Tremorel's."

M. Courtois was a friend of the count's; he became whiter than his
shirt at this sudden news.

"My God!" stammered he, unable to control his emotion, "what do you
say--a crime!"

"Yes; we have just discovered a body; and as sure as you are here,
I believe it to be that of the countess."

The worthy man raised his arms heavenward, with a wandering air.

"But where, when?"

"Just now, at the foot of the park, as we were going to take up
our nets."

"It is horrible!" exclaimed the good M. Courtois; "what a calamity!
So worthy a lady! But it is not possible--you must be mistaken;
I should have been informed--"

"We saw it distinctly, Monsieur Mayor."

"Such a crime in my village! Well, you have done wisely to come
here. I will dress at once, and will hasten off--no, wait." He
reflected a moment, then called:

"Baptiste!"

The valet was not far off. With ear and eye alternately pressed
against the key-hole, he heard and looked with all his might. At
the sound of his master's voice he had only to stretch out his hand
and open the door.

"Monsieur called me?"

"Run to the justice of the peace," said the mayor. "There is not
a moment to lose. A crime has been committed--perhaps a murder
--you must go quickly. And you," addressing the poachers, "await
me here while I slip on my coat."

The justice of the peace at Orcival, M. Plantat--"Papa Plantat,"
as he was called--was formerly an attorney at Melun. At fifty,
Mr. Plantat, whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity,
lost in the same month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons,
charming youths, one eighteen, the other twenty-two years old.
These successive losses crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness
left without defence against misfortune. For a long time his reason
was despaired of. Even the sight of a client, coming to trouble his
grief, to recount stupid tales of self-interest, exasperated him.
It was not surprising that he sold out his professional effects and
good-will at half price. He wished to establish himself at his ease
in his grief, with the certainty of not being disturbed in its
indulgence.

But the intensity of his mourning diminished, and the ills of
idleness came. The justiceship of the peace at Orcival was vacant,
and M. Plantat applied for and obtained it. Once installed in this
office, he suffered less from ennui. This man, who saw his life
drawing to an end, undertook to interest himself in the thousand
diverse cases which came before him. He applied to these all the
forces of a superior intelligence, the resources of a mind admirably
fitted to separate the false from the true among the lies he was
forced to hear. He persisted, besides, in living alone, despite
the urging of M. Courtois; pretending that society fatigued him,
and that an unhappy man is a bore in company.

Misfortune, which modifies characters, for good or bad, had made
him, apparently, a great egotist. He declared that he was only
interested in the affairs of life as a critic tired of its active
scenes. He loved to make a parade of his profound indifference
for everything, swearing that a rain of fire descending upon Paris,
would not even make him turn his head. To move him seemed
impossible. "What's that to me?" was his invariable exclamation.

Such was the man who, a quarter of an hour after Baptiste's
departure, entered the mayor's house.

M. Plantat was tall, thin, and nervous. His physiognomy was not
striking. His hair was short, his restless eyes seemed always to
be seeking something, his very long nose was narrow and sharp.
After his affliction, his mouth, formerly well shaped, became
deformed; his lower lip had sunk, and gave him a deceptive look of
simplicity.

"They tell me," said he, at the threshold, "that Madame de Tremorel
has been murdered."

"These men here, at least, pretend so," answered the mayor, who had
just reappeared.

M. Courtois was no longer the same man. He had had time to make
his toilet a little. His face attempted to express a haughty
coldness. He had been reproaching himself for having been wanting
in dignity, in showing his grief before the Bertauds. "Nothing
ought to agitate a man in my position," said he to himself. And,
being terribly agitated, he forced himself to be calm, cold, and
impassible.

M. Plantat was so naturally.

"This is a very sad event," said he, in a tone which he forced
himself to make perfectly disinterested; "but after all, how does
it concern us? We must, however, hurry and ascertain whether it
is true. I have sent for the brigadier, and he will join us."

"Let us go," said M. Courtois; "I have my scarf in my pocket."

They hastened off. Philippe and his father went first, the young
man eager and impatient, the old one sombre and thoughtful. The
mayor, at each step, made some exclamation.

"I can't understand it," muttered he; "a murder in my commune! a
commune where, in the memory of men, no crime has been committed!"

And he directed a suspicious glance toward the two Bertauds. The
road which led toward the chateau of M. de Tremorel was an
unpleasant one, shut in by walls a dozen feet high. On one side
is the park of the Marchioness de Lanascol; on the other the
spacious garden of Saint Jouan. The going and coming had taken
time; it was nearly eight o'clock when the mayor, the justice,
and their guides stopped before the gate of M. de Tremorel.

The mayor rang. The bell was very large; only a small gravelled
court of five or six yards separated the gate from the house;
nevertheless no one appeared.

The mayor rang more vigorously, then with all his strength; but in
vain.

Before the gate of Mme. de Lanascol's chateau, nearly opposite, a
groom was standing, occupied in cleaning and polishing a bridle-bit.
"It's of no use to ring, gentlemen," said this man; "there's nobody
in the chateau."

"How! nobody?" asked the mayor, surprised.

"I mean," said the groom, "that there is no one there but the master
and mistress. The servants all went away last evening by the 8.40
train to Paris, to the wedding of the old cook, Madame Denis. They
ought to return this morning by the first train. I was invited
myself--"

"Great God!" interrupted M. Courtois, "then the count and countess
remained alone last night?"

"Entirely alone, Monsieur Mayor."

"It is horrible!"

M. Plantat seemed to grow impatient during this dialogue. "Come,"
said he, "we cannot stay forever at the gate. The gendarmes do not
come; let us send for the locksmith." Philippe was about to hasten
off, when, at the end of the road, singing and laughing were heard.
Five persons, three women and two men, soon appeared.

"Ah, there are the people of the chateau," cried the groom, whom
this morning visit seemed to annoy, "they ought to have a key."

The domestics, seeing the group about the gate, became silent and
hastened their steps. One of them began to run ahead of the others;
it was the count's valet de chambre.

"These gentlemen perhaps wish to speak to Monsieur the Count?"
asked he, having bowed to M. Plantat.

"We have rung five times, as hard as we could," said the mayor.

"It is surprising," said the valet de chambre, "the count sleeps
very lightly. Perhaps he has gone out."

"Horror!" cried Philippe. "Both of them have been murdered!" These
words shocked the servants, whose gayety announced a reasonable
number of healths drunk to the happiness of the newly wedded pair.
M. Courtois seemed to be studying the attitude of old Bertaud.

"A murder!" muttered the valet de chambre. "It was for money then;
it must have been known--"

"What?" asked the mayor.

"Monsieur the Count received a very large sum yesterday morning."

"Large! yes," added a chambermaid. "He had a large package of
bank-bills. Madame even said to Monsieur that she should not shut
her eyes the whole night, with this immense sum in the house."

There was a silence; each one looked at the others with a frightened
air. M. Courtois reflected.

"At what hour did you leave the chateau last evening?" asked he of
the servants.

"At eight o'clock; we had dinner early."

"You went away all together?"

"Yes, sir."

"You did not leave each other?"

"Not a minute."

"And you returned all together?"

The servants exchanged a significant look.

"All," responded a chambermaid--"that is to say, no. One left us
on reaching the Lyons station at Paris; it was Guespin."

"Yes, sir; he went away, saying that he would rejoin us at Wepler's,
in the Batignolles, where the wedding took place." The mayor
nudged the justice with his elbow, as if to attract his attention,
and continued to question the chambermaid.

"And this Guespin, as you call him--did you see him again?"

"No, sir. I asked several times during the evening in vain, what
had become of him; his absence seemed to me suspicious." Evidently
the chambermaid tried to show superior perspicacity. A little more,
and she would have talked of presentiments.

"Has this Guespin been long in the house?"

"Since spring."

"What were his duties?"

"He was sent from Paris by the house of the 'Skilful Gardener,' to
take care of the rare flowers in Madame's conservatory."

"And did he know of this money?"

The domestics again exchanged significant glances.

"Yes," they answered in chorus, "we had talked a great deal about
it among ourselves."

The chambermaid added: "He even said to me, 'To think that Monsieur
the Count has enough money in his cabinet to make all our fortunes.'"

"What kind of a man is this?"

This question absolutely extinguished the talkativeness of the
servants. No one dared to speak, perceiving that the least word
might serve as the basis of a terrible accusation. But the groom
of the house opposite, who burned to mix himself up in the affair,
had none of these scruples. "Guespin," answered he, "is a good
fellow. Lord, what jolly things he knows! He knows everything
you can imagine. It appears he has been rich in times past, and if
he wished--But dame! he loves to have his work all finished, and
go off on sprees. He's a crack billiard-player, I can tell you."

Papa Plantat, while listening in an apparently absent-minded way
to these depositions, or rather these scandals, carefully examined
the wall and the gate. He now turned, and interrupting the groom:

"Enough of this," said he, to the great scandal of M. Courtois.
"Before pursuing this interrogatory, let us ascertain the crime,
if crime there is; for it is not proved. Let whoever has the key,
open the gate."

The valet de chambre had the key; he opened the gate, and all
entered the little court. The gendarmes had just arrived. The
mayor told the brigadier to follow him, and placed two men at the
gate, ordering them not to permit anyone to enter or go out,
unless by his orders. Then the valet de chambre opened the door
of the house.



                                 II

If there had been no crime, at least something extraordinary had
taken place at the chateau; the impassible justice might have
been convinced of it, as soon as he had stepped into the
vestibule. The glass door leading to the garden was wide open,
and three of the panes were shattered into a thousand pieces. The
carpeting of waxed canvas between the doors had been torn up, and
on the white marble slabs large drops of blood were visible. At
the foot of the staircase was a stain larger than the rest, and
upon the lowest step a splash hideous to behold.

Unfitted for such spectacles, or for the mission he had now to
perform, M. Courtois became faint. Luckily, he borrowed from the
idea of his official importance, an energy foreign to his character.
The more difficult the preliminary examination of this affair
seemed, the more determined he was to carry it on with dignity.

"Conduct us to the place where you saw the body," said he to
Bertaud. But Papa Plantat intervened.

"It would be wiser, I think," he objected, "and more methodical,
to begin by going through the house."

"Perhaps--yes--true, that's my own view," said the mayor, grasping at
the other's counsel, as a drowning man clings to a plank. And he
made all retire excepting the brigadier and the valet de chambre,
the latter remaining to serve as guide. "Gendarmes," cried he to
the men guarding the gate, "see to it that no one goes out; prevent
anybody from entering the house, and above all, let no one go into
the garden."

Then they ascended the staircase. Drops of blood were sprinkled
all along the stairs. There was also blood on the baluster, and M.
Courtois perceived, with horror, that his hands were stained.

When they had reached the first landing-stage, the mayor said to
the valet de chambre:

"Tell me, my friend, did your master and mistress occupy the same
chamber?"

"Yes, sir."

"And where is their chamber?"

"There, sir."

As he spoke, the valet de chambre staggered back terrified, and
pointed to a door, the upper panel of which betrayed the imprint
of a bloody hand. Drops of perspiration overspread the poor
mayor's forehead. He too was terrified, and could hardly keep on
his feet. Alas, authority brings with it terrible obligations!
The brigadier, an old soldier of the Crimea, visibly moved,
hesitated.

M. Plantat alone, as tranquil as if he were in his garden, retained
his coolness, and looked around upon the others.

"We must decide," said he.

He entered the room; the rest followed.
