Monsieur Lecoq, Émile Gaboriau [best non fiction books to read .txt] 📗

would hesitate before attacking a good man if he was obliged to say to himself: ‘I cannot strike this honest man, for though he die, his children will surely call me to account. Their fury will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us sleeping and waking, pursue us without ceasing, everywhere, and pitilessly. Their hatred always on the alert, will accompany us and surround us. It will be an implacable, merciless warfare. I shall never venture forth without fearing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until we have succumbed, they will prowl about our house, trying to slip in through tiniest opening, death, dishonor, ruin, infamy, and misery!’ ” He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added: “That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me.”

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur’s words. His threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His quiet manner, his icy tones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which endure so long as the man lives.

He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth he added:

“Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”

Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties. And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in this mood. She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice:

“Jean,” said she, “I implore you to renounce these projects. In the name of our mother, return to your better self. These are crimes which you are meditating!”

With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, he replied:

“Have done with this. I was wrong to confide my hopes to you. Do not make me regret that I came here.”

Then the sister tried another plan. She rose, forced her lips to smile, and as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, she begged Jean to remain with her that evening, at least, and share her frugal supper.

“Remain,” she entreated; “that is not much to do⁠—and it will make me so happy. And since it will be the last time we shall see each other for years, grant me a few hours. It is so long since we have met. I have suffered so much. I have so many things to tell you! Jean, my dear brother, can it be that you love me no longer?”

One must have been bronze to remain insensible to such prayers. Jean Lacheneur’s heart swelled almost to bursting; his stern features relaxed, and a tear trembled in his eye.

Marie-Anne saw that tear. She thought she had conquered, and clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed: “Ah! you will remain! you will remain!”

No. Jean had already mastered his momentary weakness, though not without a terrible effort; and in a harsh voice:

“Impossible! impossible!” he repeated.

Then, as his sister clung to him imploringly, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart.

“Poor sister⁠—poor Marie-Anne⁠—you will never know what it costs me to refuse you, to separate myself from you. But this must be. In even coming here I have been guilty of an imprudent act. You do not understand to what perils you will be exposed if people suspect any bond between us. I trust you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but do not try to see me, or even to learn what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.”

He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, then lifted her, placed her in a chair, and freed himself from her detaining hands.

“Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”

She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back. Too late! He had fled.

“It is over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.”

A vague, inexplicable, but horrible fear, contracted her heart. She felt that she was being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancor, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed. But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy presentiments.

One evening, while she was preparing her little table, she heard a rustling sound at the door. She turned and looked; someone had slipped a letter under the door.

Courageously, and without an instant’s hesitation, she sprang to the door and opened it. No one was there! The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloom without. She listened; not a sound broke the stillness. Agitated and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light, and looked at the address.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement. She recognized Martial’s handwriting. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.” She broke the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, and read:

My dear Marie-Anne⁠—Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me your friendship and your esteem.

But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Baron d’Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon.

You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon.