The Crime of
The Boulevard
By JULES CLARETIE
Member of the French Academy
Translated byMRS. CARLTON A. KINGSBURY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
Eighteen East Seventeenth Street:: NEW YORK
Copyright, 1897
by
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
The Crime of the Boulevard
[Pg 3]
THECRIME OF THE BOULEVARD.
CHAPTER I.
"Where does Bernardet live?"
"At the passage to the right—Yes, that housewhich you see with the grating and the garden behindit."
The man to whom a passer-by had given this informationhurried away in the direction pointedout; although gasping for breath, he tried to run,in order to more quickly reach the little house atthe end of the passage of the Elysée des BeauxArts. This passage, a sort of cul-de-sac, on eitherside of which were black buildings, strange oldhouses, and dilapidated storehouses, opened upona boulevard filled with life and movement; withpeople promenading; with the noise of tramways;with gaiety and light.
The man wore the dress and had the bearing ofa workman. He was very short, very fat, and hisbald head was bared to the warm October rain.[Pg 4]He was a workman, in truth, who labored in hisconcierge lodge, making over and mending garmentsfor his neighbors, while his wife looked afterthe house, swept the staircases, and complained ofher lot.
Mme. Moniche found life hard and disagreeable,and regretted that it had not given her what itpromised when, at eighteen, and very pretty, shehad expected something better than to watch besidea tailor bent over his work in a concierge'slodge. Into her life a tragedy had suddenly precipitateditself, and Mme. Moniche found, that day,something to brighten up her afternoon. Enteringa moment before, the apartment occupied by M.Rovère, she had found her lodger lying on hisback, his eyes fixed, his arms flung out, with agash across his throat!
M. Rovère had lived alone in the house for manyyears, receiving a few mysterious persons. Mme.Moniche looked after his apartment, entering byusing her own key whenever it was necessary; andher lodger had given her permission to come thereat any time to read the daily papers.
Mme. Moniche hurried down the stairs.
"M. Rovère is dead! M. Rovère has been murdered!His throat has been cut! He has beenassassinated!" And, pushing her husband out ofthe door, she exclaimed:
"The police! Go for the police!"
[Pg 5]This word "police" awakened in the tailor'smind, not the thought of the neighboring Commissary,but the thought of the man to whom he feltthat he ought to appeal, whom he ought to consult.This man was the good little M. Bernardet, whopassed for a man of genius of his kind, at theSureté, and for whom Moniche had often repairedcoats and rehemmed trousers.
From the mansion in the Boulevard de Clichy,where Moniche