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A wound appeared on his neck, just below the chin. "Monsieur Lecoq!" cried M. Plantat, recovering his voice. "Himself," answered the detective, "and this time the true Lecoq." Turning to Robelot, he slapped him on the shoulder and added: "Go on, you." Robelot fell upon a sofa, but the detective continued to hold him fast. "Yes," he continued, "this rascal has robbed me of my blond locks.
Robelot must have had rare presence of mind and courage to kill himself in that obscure closet, without making enough noise to arouse the attention of those in the library. He had wound a string tightly around his neck, and had used a piece of pencil as a twister, and so had strangled himself.
"None whatever, Master Robelot, I only wish to congratulate you on happening in so apropos, to bleed Monsieur Courtois. Your lancet has, doubtless, saved his life." "It's quite possible." "Monsieur Courtois is generous he will amply recompense this great service." "Oh, I shall ask him nothing. Thank God, I want nobody's help. If I am paid my due, I am content."
"Then your trade in herbs isn't what has enriched you." The conversation was becoming a cross-examination. The bone-setter was beginning to be restless. "Oh, I make something out of the herbs," he answered. "And as you are thrifty, you buy land." "I've also got some cattle and horses, which bring in something. I raise horses, cows, and sheep." "Also without diploma?" Robelot waxed disdainful.
"Oh, my God!" cried the poor lady, wringing her hands, in the fear of a new misfortune, as bitter as the first; which, however, restored her to her presence of mind. She called the servants, who assisted the mayor to regain his chamber. Mme. Courtois also retired, followed by the doctor. Three persons only remained in the drawing-room Plantat, Lecoq, and Robelot, who still stood near the door.
On such days I again become myself; I take off my false beard, throw down my mask, and my real self emerges from the hundred disguises which I assume in turn. I have been a detective fifteen years, and no one at the prefecture knows either my true face or the color of my hair." Master Robelot, ill at ease on his lounge, attempted to move.
"Well, you see, you may think yourself lucky for the doctor is going to have a splendid chance to study this sort of thing, and he will undoubtedly want you to assist him." But Robelot was too shrewd not to have already guessed that this cross-examination had a purpose. What was M. Plantat after? he asked himself, not without a vague terror.
It is a simple one to resolve, because we've got the man who sold it to her in that closet." "Besides," returned the doctor, "I can tell something about the poison. This rascal of a Robelot stole it from my laboratory, and I know only too well what it is, even if the symptoms, so well described by our friend Plantat, had not indicated its name to me.
But it was in vain that M. Plantat wasted his persuasive eloquence. Robelot shut himself up in a ferocious and dogged silence. M. Gendron, hoping, not without reason, that he might have some influence over his former assistant, spoke: "Answer us; what did you come for?" Robelot made an effort; it was painful, with his broken jaw, to speak. "I came to rob; I confess it." "To rob what?"
Robelot, apparently, was once more self-possessed; he forced himself to answer: "Bast! let us hope that justice is in the wrong."
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