“This is one of those vulgar details,” pursued he, “whose very insignificance makes them terrible, when they are attended by certain circumstances.  Now imagine the Count de Tremorel, pale, covered with his wife’s blood, shaving himself before his glass; rubbing the soap over his face, in that room all topsy-turvy, while three steps off lies the still warm and palpitating body!  It was an act of terrible courage, believe me, to look at himself in the glass after a murder—­one of which few criminals are capable.  The count’s hands, however, trembled so violently that he could scarcely hold his razor, and his face must have been cut several times.”

“What!” said Dr. Gendron, “do you imagine that the count spared the time to shave?”

“I am positively sure of it, pos-i-tive-ly.  A towel on which I have found one of those marks which a razor leaves when it is wiped—­and one only—­has put me on the track of this fact.  I looked about, and found a box of razors, one of which had recently been used, for it was still moist; and I have carefully preserved both the towel and the box.  And if these proofs are not enough, I will send to Paris for two of my men, who will find, somewhere in the house or the garden, both the count’s beard and the cloth with which he wiped his razor.  As to the fact which surprises you, Doctor, it seems to me very natural; more, it is the necessary result of the plan he adopted.  Monsieur de Tremorel has always worn his full beard:  he cuts it off, and his appearance is so entirely altered, that if he met anyone in his flight, he would not be recognized.”

The doctor was apparently convinced, for he cried: 

“It’s clear—­it’s evident,”

“Once thus disguised, the count hastens to carry out the rest of his plan, to arrange everything to throw the law off the scent, and to make it appear that he, as well as his wife, has been murdered.  He hunts up Guespin’s vest, tears it out at the pocket, and puts a piece of it in the countess’s hand.  Then taking the body in his arms, crosswise, he goes downstairs.  The wounds bleed frightfully—­ hence the numerous stains discovered all along his path.  Reaching the foot of the staircase he is obliged to put the countess down, in order to open the garden-door.  This explains the large stain in the vestibule.  The count, having opened the door, returns for the body and carries it in his arms as far as the edge of the lawn; there he stops carrying it, and drags it by the shoulders, walking backward, trying thus to create the impression that his own body has been dragged across there and thrown into the Seine.  But the wretch forgot two things which betray him to us.  He did not reflect that the countess’s skirts, in being dragged along the grass, pressing it down and breaking it for a considerable space, spoiled his trick.  Nor did he think that her elegant and well-curved feet, encased in small high-heeled boots, would mould themselves in the damp earth of the lawn, and thus leave against him a proof clearer than the day.”