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

repentance and for expiation. She begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession.

Paler than the dying woman, but implacable, Blanche watched over her, aided by that one of her personal attendants in whom she had most confidence.

“If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought. “I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will betray me.”

It did not last long.

The patient’s delirium was succeeded by such utter prostration that it seemed each moment would be her last.

But toward midnight she appeared to revive a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she said:

“You have had no pity, Blanche. You have deprived me of all hope in the life to come. God will punish you. You, too, shall die like a dog; alone, without a word of Christian counsel or encouragement. I curse you!”

And she died just as the clock was striking two.

The time when Blanche would have given almost anything to know that Aunt Medea was beneath the sod, had long since passed.

Now, the death of the poor old woman affected her deeply.

She had lost an accomplice who had often consoled her, and she had gained nothing, since one of her maids was now acquainted with the secret of the crime at the Borderie.

Everyone who was intimately acquainted with the Duchesse de Sairmeuse, noticed her dejection, and was astonished by it.

“Is it not strange,” remarked her friends, “that the duchess⁠—such a very superior woman⁠—should grieve so much for that absurd relative of hers?”

But the dejection of Mme. Blanche was due in great measure to the sinister prophecies of the accomplice to whom she had denied the last consolations of religion.

And as her mind reviewed the past she shuddered, as the peasants at Sairmeuse had done, when she thought of the fatality which had pursued the shedders of innocent blood.

What misfortune had attended them all⁠—from the sons of Chupin, the miserable traitor, up to her father, the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose mind had not been illumined by the least gleam of reason for ten long years before his death.

“My turn will come!” she thought.

The Baron and the Baroness d’Escorval, and old Corporal Bavois had departed this life within a month of each other, the previous year, mourned by all.

So that of all the people of diverse condition who had been connected with the troubles at Montaignac, Blanche knew only four who were still alive.

Maurice d’Escorval, who had entered the magistracy, and was now a judge in the tribunal of the Seine; Abbé Midon, who had come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself.

There was another person, the bare recollection of whom made her tremble, and whose name she dared not utter.

Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne’s brother.

An inward voice, more powerful than reason, told her that this implacable enemy was still alive, watching for his hour of vengeance.

More troubled by her presentiments now, than she had been by Chupin’s persecutions in days gone by, Mme. de Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chelteux in order to ascertain, if possible, what she had to expect.

Fouche’s former agent had not wavered in his devotion to the duchess. Every three months he presented his bill, which was paid without discussion; and to ease his conscience, he sent one of his men to prowl around Sairmeuse for a while, at least once a year.

Animated by the hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised his client, and⁠—what was more to the purpose⁠—promised himself, that he would discover this dreaded enemy.

He started in quest of him, and had already begun to collect proofs of Jean’s existence, when his investigations were abruptly terminated.

One morning the body of a man literally hacked in pieces was found in an old well. It was the body of Chelteux.

“A fitting close to the career of such a wretch,” said the Journal des Debats, in noting the event.

When she read this news, Mme. Blanche felt as a culprit would feel on reading his death-warrant.

“The end is near,” she murmured. “Lacheneur is coming!”

The duchess was not mistaken.

Jean had told the truth when he declared that he was not disposing of his sister’s estate for his own benefit. In his opinion, Marie-Anne’s fortune must be consecrated to one sacred purpose; he would not divert the slightest portion of it to his individual needs.

He was absolutely penniless when the manager of a travelling theatrical company engaged him for a consideration of forty-five francs per month.

From that day he lived the precarious life of a strolling player. He was poorly paid, and often reduced to abject poverty by lack of engagements, or by the impecuniosity of managers.

His hatred had lost none of its virulence; but to wreak the desired vengeance upon his enemy, he must have time and money at his disposal.

But how could he accumulate money when he was often too poor to appease his hunger?

Still he did not renounce his hopes. His was a rancor which was only intensified by years. He was biding his time while he watched from the depths of his misery the brilliant fortunes of the house of Sairmeuse.

He had waited sixteen years, when one of his friends procured him an engagement in Russia.

The engagement was nothing; but the poor comedian was afterward fortunate enough to obtain an interest in a theatrical enterprise, from which he realized a fortune of one hundred thousand francs in less than six years.

“Now,” said he, “I can give up this life. I am rich enough, now, to begin the warfare.”

And six weeks later he arrived in his native village.

Before carrying any of his atrocious designs into execution, he went to Sairmeuse to visit Marie-Anne’s grave, in order to obtain there an increase of animosity, as well as the relentless sangfroid of a stern avenger of crime.

That was his only motive in going, but, on the very evening of his arrival, he learned through a garrulous old peasant woman that ever since his departure⁠—that is to say, for a period of twenty years⁠—two parties had been making persistent inquiries for a child