As soon as he was alone, the doctor threw himself on his bed; but he could not sleep. He had never in his life been so much puzzled. He felt as if this crime was the result of some terrible but mysterious intrigue¹; and the very fact of having, as he fancied, raised a corner of the veil, made him burn with the desire to draw it aside altogether.  
“Why,” he said to himself, “why might not the scamp whom we hold be the author of the other two attempts likewise? There is nothing improbable in that supposition. The man, once engaged, might easily have been put on board ‘The Conquest;’ and he might have left France saying to himself that it would be odd indeed, if during a long voyage, or in a land like this, he did not find a chance to earn his money without running much risk.”
 
The result of his meditations² was, that the chief surgeon appeared, at nine o’clock, at the office of the state attorney. He placed the matter before him very fully³ and plainly; and, an hour afterwards, he crossed the yard on his way to the prison, accompanied by a magistrate⁴ and his clerk.
 
“How is the man the sailors brought here last night?” he asked the jailer.
 
“Badly, sir. He would not eat.”
 
“What did he say when he got here?”
 
“Nothing. He seemed to be stupefied.”
 
“You did not try to make him talk?”
 
“Why, yes, a little. He answered that he had done some mischief⁵; that he was in despair, and wished he were dead.”
 
The magistrate looked at the surgeon as if he meant to say, “Just as I expected from what you told me!” Then, turning again to the jailer, he said,—
 
“Show us to the prisoner’s cell.”
 
The murderer had been put into a small but tidy cell in the first story. When they entered, they found him seated on his bed, his heels on the bars, and his chin in the palm of his hands. As soon as he saw the surgeon, he jumped up, and with outstretched arms and rolling eyes, exclaimed,—
 
“The officer has died!”
 
“No,” replied the surgeon, “no! Calm yourself. The wound is a very bad one; but in a fortnight he will be up again.”
 
These words fell like a heavy blow upon the murderer. He turned pale; his lips quivered; and he trembled in all his limbs. Still he promptly⁶ mastered this weakness of the flesh; and falling on his knees, with folded hands, he murmured in the most dramatic manner,—
 
“Then I am not a murderer! O Great God, I thank thee!”
 
And his lips moved as if he were uttering a fervent⁷ prayer.
 
It was evidently a case of coarsest hypocrisy⁸; for his looks contradicted his words and his voice. The magistrate, however, seemed to be taken in.
 
“You show proper feelings,” he said. “Now get up and answer me. What is your name?”
 
“Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet.”
 
“What age?”
 
“Thirty-five years.”
 
“Where were you born?”
 
“At Bagnolet, near Paris. And on that account, my friend”—
 
“Never mind. Your profession?”
 
The man hesitated. The magistrate added,—
 
“In your own interest I advise you to tell the truth. The truth always comes out in the end; and your position would be a very serious one if you tried to lie. Answer, therefore, directly.”
 
“Well, I am an engraver⁹ on metal; but I have been in the army; I served my time in the marines.”
 
“What brought you to Cochin China?”
 
“The desire to find work. I was tired of Paris. There was no work for engravers. I met a friend who told me the government wanted good workmen for the colonies.”
 
“What was your friend’s name?”
 
A slight blush passed over the man’s cheek’s, and he answered hastily,—
 
“I have forgotten his name.”
 
The magistrate seemed to redouble his attention, although he did not show it.
 
“That is very unfortunate for you,” he answered coldly. “Come, make an effort; try to remember.”
 
“I know I cannot; it is not worth the trouble.”
 
“Well; but no doubt you recollect¹⁰ the profession of the man who knew so well that government wanted men in Cochin China? What was it?”
 
The man, this time, turned crimson¹¹ with rage, and cried out with extraordinary vehemence,—
 
“How do I know? Besides, what have I to do with my friend’s name and profession? I learned from him that they wanted workmen. I called at the navy department, they engaged me; and that is all.”
 
Standing¹² quietly in one of the corners of the cell, the old chief surgeon lost not a word, not a gesture, of the murderer. And he could hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with delight as he noticed the marvellous skill of the magistrate in seizing upon all those little signs, which, when summed up at the end of an investigation¹³, form an overwhelming mass of evidence against the criminal. The magistrate, in the meantime, went on with the same impassive air,—
 
“Let us leave that question, then, since it seems to irritate you, and let us go on to your residence here. How have you supported yourself at Saigon?”
 
“By my work, forsooth! I have two arms; and I am not a good-for- nothing.”
 
“You have found employment, you say, as engraver on metal?”
 
“No.”
 
“But you said”—
 
Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, could hardly conceal¹⁴ his impatience¹⁵.
 
“If you won’t let me have my say,” he broke out insolently¹⁶, “it isn’t worth while questioning me.”
 
The magistrate seemed not to notice it. He answered coldly,—
 
“Oh! talk as much as you want. I can wait.”
 
“Well, then, the day after we had landed, M. Farniol, the owner of the French restaurant, offered me a place as waiter. Of course I accepted, and stayed there a year. Now I wait at table at the Hotel de France, kept by M. Roy. You can send for my two masters; they will tell you whether there is any complaint against me.”
 
“They will certainly be examined. And where do you live?”
 
“At the Hotel de France, of course, where I am employed.”
 
The magistrate’s face looked more and more benevolent¹⁷. He asked next,—
 
“And that is a good place,—to be waiter at a restaurant or a hotel?”
 
“Why, yes—pretty good.”
 
“They pay well; eh?”
 
“That depends,—sometimes they do; at other times they don’t. When it is the season”—
 
“That is so everywhere. But let us be accurate. You have been now eighteen months in Saigon; no doubt you have laid up something?”
 
The man looked troubled and amazed, as if he had suddenly found out that the apparent benevolence¹⁸ of the magistrate had led him upon slippery and dangerous ground. He said evasively,—
 
“If I have put anything aside, it is not worth mentioning.”
 
“On the contrary, let us mention it. How much about have you saved?”
 
Bagnolet’s looks, and the tremor¹⁹ of his lips, showed the rage that was devouring²⁰ him.
 
“I don’t know,” he said sharply.
 
The magistrate made a gesture of surprise which was admirable. He added,—
 
“What! You don’t know how much you have laid up? That is too improbable! When people save money, one cent after another, to provide for their old age, they know pretty well”—
 
“Well, then, take it for granted that I have saved nothing.”
 
“As you like it. Only it is my duty to show you the effect of your declaration. You tell me you have not laid up any money, don’t you? Now, what would you say, if, upon search being made, the police should find a certain sum of money on your person or elsewhere?”
 
“They won’t find any.”
 
“So much the better for you; for, after what you said, it would be a terrible charge.”
 
“Let them search.”
 
“They are doing it now, and not only in your room, but also elsewhere. They will soon know if you have invested any money, or if you have deposited it with any of your acquaintances.”
 
“I may have brought some money with me from home.”
 
“No; for you have told me that you could no longer live in Paris, finding no work.”
 
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, made such a sudden and violent start, that the surgeon thought he was going to attack the magistrate. He felt he had been caught in a net the meshes²¹ of which were drawing tighter and tighter around him; and these apparently²² inoffensive questions assumed suddenly a terrible meaning.
 
“Just answer me in one word,” said the magistrate. “Did you bring any money from France, or did you not?”
 
The man rose, and his lips opened to utter a curse; but he checked himself, sat down again, and, laughing ferociously²³, he said,—
 
“Ah! you would like to ‘squeeze’ me, and make me cut my own throat. But luckily, I can see through you; and I refuse to answer.”
 
“You mean you want to consider. Have a care! You need not consider in order to tell the truth.”
 
And, as the man remained obstinately²⁴ silent, the magistrate began again after a pause, saying,—
 
“You know what you are accused of? They suspect that you fired at Lieut. Champcey with intent to kill.”
 
“That is an abominable²⁵ lie!”
 
“So you say. How did you hear that the officers of ‘The Conquest’ had arranged a large hunting-party?”
 
“I had heard them speak of it at table d’hote.”
 
“And you left your service in order to attend this hunt, some twelve miles from Saigon? That is certainly singular.”
 
“Not at all; for I am very fond of hunting. And then I thought, if I could bring back a large quantity of game, I would probably be able to sell it very well.”
 
“And you would have added the profit to your other savings²⁶, wouldn’t you?”
 
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was stung by the point of this ironical²⁷ question, as if he had received a sharp cut. But, as he said nothing, the magistrate continued,—
 
“Explain to us how the thing happened.”
 
On this ground the murderer knew he was at home, having had ample time to get ready; and with an accuracy which did great honor to his memory, or to his veracity²⁸, he repeated what he had told the surgeon on the spot, and at the time of the catastrophe²⁹. He only added, that he had concealed³⁰ himself, because he had seen at once to what terrible charges he would be exposed by his awkwardness. And as he continued his account, warming up with its plausibility³¹, he recovered the impudence³², or rather the insolence³³, which seemed to be the prominent feature of his character.
 
“Do you know the officer whom you have wounded?” asked the magistrate when he had finished.
 
“Of course, I do, as I have made the voyage with him. He is Lieut. Champcey.”
 
“Have you any complaint against him?”
 
“None at all.”
 
Then he added in a tone of bitterness and resentment,—
 
“What relations do you think could there be between a poor devil like myself and a great personage like him? Would he have condescended³⁴ even to look at me? Would I have dared to speak to him? If I know him, it is only because I have seen him, from afar off, walk the quarter-deck with the other officers, a cigar in his mouth, after a good meal, while we in the forecastle had our salt fish, and broke our teeth with worm-eaten hard-tack.”
 
“So you had no reason to hate him?”
 
“None; as little as anybody else.”
 
Seated upon a wretched little footstool, his paper on his knees, an inkhorn in his hand, the clerk was rapidly taking down the questions and the answers. The magistrate made him a sign that it was ended, and then said, turning to the murderer,—
 
“That is enough for to-day. I am bound to tell you, that, having so far only kept you as a matter of precaution, I shall issue now an order for your arrest.”
 
“You mean I am to be put in jail?”
 
“Yes, until the court shall decide whether you are guilty of murder, or of involuntary homicide.”
 
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, seemed to have foreseen this conclusion: at least he coolly shrugged³⁶ his shoulders, and said in a hoarse³⁷ voice,—
 
“In that case I shall have my linen³⁸ changed pretty often here; for, if I had been wicked enough to plot an assassination³⁹, I should not have been fool enough to say so.”
 
“Who knows?” replied the magistrate. “Some evidence is as good as an avowal⁴⁰.”
 
And, turning to the clerk, he said,—
 
“Read the deposition⁴¹ to the accused.”
 
A moment afterwards, when this formality had been fulfilled, the magistrate and the old doctor left the room. The former looked extremely grave, and said,—
 
“You were right, doctor; that man is a murderer. The so-called friend, whose name he would not tell us, is no other person than the rascal⁴² whose tool he is. And I mean to get that person’s name out of him, if M. Champcey recovers, and will give me the slightest hint. Therefore, doctor, nurse your patient.”
 
To recommend Daniel to the surgeon was at least superfluous⁴³. If the old original was inexorable, as they said on board ship, for those lazy ones who pretended to be sick for the purpose of shirking work, he was all tenderness for his real patients; and his tenderness grew with the seriousness of their danger. He would not have hesitated a moment between an admiral who was slightly unwell, and the youngest midshipman of the fleet who was dangerously wounded. The admiral might have waited a long time before he would have left the midshipman,—an originality⁴⁴ far less frequent than we imagine.
 
It would have been enough, therefore, for Daniel to be so dangerously wounded. But there was something else besides. Like all who had ever sailed with Daniel, the surgeon, also, had conceived a lively interest in him, and was filled with admiration⁴⁵ for his character. Besides that, he knew that his patient alone could solve this great mystery, which puzzled him exceedingly.
 
Unfortunately, Daniel’s condition was one of those which defy all professional skill, and where all hope depends upon time, nature, and constitution. To try to question him would have been absurd; for he had so far continued delirious⁴⁶. At times he thought he was on board his sloop⁴⁷ in the swamps of the Kamboja; but most frequently he imagined himself fighting against enemies bent⁴⁸ upon his ruin. The names of Sarah Brandon, Mrs. Brian, and Thomas Elgin, were constantly on his lips, mixed up with imprecations and fearful threats.
 
For twenty days he remained so; and for twenty days and twenty nights his “man,” Baptist Lefloch, who had caught the murderer, was by his bedside, watching his slightest movement, and ever bending over him tenderly. Not one of those noble daughters of divine wisdom, whom we meet in every part of the globe, wherever there is a sick man to nurse, could have been more patient, more attentive⁴⁹, or more ingenious, than this common sailor. He had put off his shoes, so as to walk more softly; and he came and went on tiptoe, his face full of care and anxiety, preparing draughts⁵⁰, and handling with his huge bony hands, with laughable, but almost touching⁵¹ precautions, the small phials out of which he had to give a spoonful to his patient at stated times.
 
“I’ll have you appointed head nurse of the navy, Lefloch,” said the old surgeon.
 
But he shook his head and answered,—
 
“I would not like the place, commandant. Only, you see, when we were down there on the Kamboja, and Baptist Lefloch was writhing⁵² like a worm in the grip of the cholera⁵³, and when he was already quite blue and cold, Lieut. Champcey did not send for one of those lazy Annamites to rub him, he came himself, and rubbed him till he brought back the heat and life itself. Now, you see, I want to do some little for him.”
 
“You would be a great scamp if you did not.”
 
The surgeon hardly left the wounded man himself. He visited him four or five times a day, once at least every night, and almost every day remained for hours sitting by his bedside, examining the patient, and experiencing, according to the symptoms, the most violent changes from hope to fear, and back again. It was thus he learned a part, at least, of Daniel’s history,—that he was to marry a daughter of Count Ville- Handry, who himself had married an adventuress; and that they had separated him from his betrothed⁵⁴ by a forged letter. The doctor’s conjectures⁵⁵ were thus confirmed: such cowardly forgers would not hesitate to hire an assassin.
 
But the worthy⁵⁶ surgeon was too deeply impressed with the dignity of his profession to divulge⁵⁷ secrets which he had heard by the bedside of a patient. And when the magistrate, devoured⁵⁸ by impatience, came to him every three or four days, he always answered,—
 
“I have nothing new to tell you. It will take weeks yet before you can examine my patient. I am sorry for it, for the sake of Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, who must be tired of prison; but he must wait.”
 
In the meantime, Daniel’s long delirium⁵⁹ had been succeeded by a period of stupor⁶⁰. Order seemed gradually to return to his mind. He recognized the persons around him, and even stammered⁶¹ a few sensible words. But he was so excessively weak, that he remained nearly all the time plunged⁶² in a kind of torpor⁶³ which looked very much like death itself. When he was aroused for a time, he always asked in an almost inaudible voice,—
 
“Are there no letters for me from France?”
 
Invariably, Lefloch replied, according to orders received from the doctor,—
 
“None, lieutenant⁶⁴.”
 
But he told a falsehood. Since Daniel was confined to his bed, three vessels⁶⁵ had arrived from France, two French and one English; and among the despatches there were eight or ten letters for Lieut. Champcey. But the old surgeon said to himself, not without good reason,—
 
“Certainly it is almost a case of conscience to leave this unfortunate man in such uncertainty⁶⁷: but this uncertainty is free from danger, at least; while any excitement would kill him as surely and as promptly as I could blow out a candle.”
 
A fortnight passed; and Daniel recovered some little strength; at last he entered upon a kind of convalescence—if a poor man who could not turn over in bed unaided can be called a convalescent. But, with his returned consciousness, his sufferings also reappeared; and, as he gradually ascertained⁶⁹ how long he had been confined, his anxiety assumed an alarming character.
 
“There must be letters for me,” he said to his man; “you keep them from me. I must have them.”
 
The doctor at last came to the conclusion that this excessive agitation⁷⁰ was likely to become as dangerous as the excitement he dreaded⁷¹ so much; so he said one day,—
 
“Let us run the risk.”
 
It was a burning hot afternoon, and Daniel had now been an invalid⁷² for seven weeks. Lefloch raised him on his pillows, stowed him away, as he called it; and the surgeon handed him his letters.
 
Daniel uttered a cry of delight.
 
At the first glance he had recognized on three of the envelopes Henrietta’s handwriting. He kissed them, and said,—
 
“At last she writes!”
 
The shock was so violent, that the doctor was almost frightened.
 
“Be calm, my dear friend,” he said. “Be calm! Be a man, forsooth!”
 
But Daniel only smiled, and replied,—
 
“Never mind me, doctor; you know joy is never dangerous; and nothing but joy can come to me from her who writes to me. However, just see how calm I am!”
 
So calm, that he did not even take the time to see which was the oldest of his letters.
 
He opened one of them at haphazard⁷³, and read:—
 
“Daniel, my dear Daniel, my only friend in this world, and my sole hope, how could you intrust me to such an infamous⁷⁴ person? How could you hand over your poor Henrietta to such a wretch³⁵? This Maxime de Brevan, this scoundrel, whom you considered your friend, if you knew”—
 
This was the long letter written by Henrietta the day after M. de Brevan had declared to her that he loved her, and that sooner or later, whether she chose or not, she should be his, giving her the choice between the horrors of starvation and the disgrace of becoming his wife.
 
As Daniel went on reading, a deadly pallor was spreading over his face, pale as it was already; his eyes grew unnaturally⁷⁵ large; and big drops of perspiration⁷⁶ trickled⁷⁷ down his temples. A nervous trembling seized him, so violent, that it made his teeth rattle⁷⁸; sobs⁷⁹ rose from his chest; and a pinkish foam⁸⁰ appeared on his discolored lips. At last he reached the concluding lines,—
 
“Now,” the young girl wrote, “since, probably, none of my letters have reached you, they must have been intercepted⁸¹. This one will reach you; for I am going to carry it to the post-office myself. For God’s sake, Daniel, return! Come back quick, if you wish to save, not your Henrietta’s honor, for I shall know how to die, but your Henrietta’s life!”
 
Then the surgeon and the sailor witnessed a frightful⁸² sight.
 
This man, who but just now had not been able to raise himself on his pillows; this unfortunate sufferer, who looked more like a skeleton than a human being; this wounded man, who had scarcely his breath left him,—threw back his blankets, and rushed to the middle of the room, crying, with a terrible voice,—
 
“My clothes, Lefloch, my clothes!”
 
The doctor had hastened forward to support him; but he pushed him aside with one arm, continuing,—
 
“By the holy name of God, Lefloch, make haste! Run to the harbor, wretch! there must be a steamer there. I buy it. Let it get up steam, instantly. In an hour I must be on my way.”
 
But this great effort had exhausted⁸³ him. He tottered⁸⁴; his eyes dosed; and he fainted away in the arms of his sailor, stammering,—
 
“That letter, doctor, that letter; read it, and you will see I must go.”
 
Raising his lieutenant, and holding him like a child in his arms, Lefloch carried him back to his............