The Mystery of Orcival, Émile Gaboriau [fiction novels to read TXT] 📗

on the lower stair, weeping bitterly. Several domestics were there also, frightened, motionless, not knowing what to do in all this fright. The drawing-room door was wide open; the room was dimly lighted by two candles; Mme. Courtois lay rather than sat in a large armchair near the fireplace. Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the windows at the rear of the apartment. They had taken off his coat and had torn away his shirtsleeves and flannel vest, when he was to be bled. There were strips of cotton wrapped about his naked arms. A small man, habited like a well-to-do Parisian artisan, stood near the door, with an embarrassed expression of countenance. It was Robelot, who had remained, lest any new exigency for his services should arise.

The entrance of his friend startled M. Courtois from the sad stupor into which he had been plunged. He got up and staggered into the arms of the worthy Plantat, saying, in a broken voice:

“Ah, my friend, I am most miserable⁠—most wretched!”

The poor mayor was so changed as scarcely to be recognizable. He was no longer the happy man of the world, with smiling face, firm look, the pride of which betrayed plainly his self-importance and prosperity. In a few hours he had grown twenty years older. He was broken, overwhelmed; his thoughts wandered in a sea of bitterness. He could only repeat, vacantly, again and again:

“Wretched! most wretched!”

M. Plantat was the right sort of a friend for such a time. He led M. Courtois back to the sofa and sat down beside him, and taking his hand in his own, forced him to calm his grief. He recalled to him that his wife, the companion of his life, remained to him, to mourn the dear departed with him. Had he not another daughter to cherish? But the poor man was in no state to listen to all this.

“Ah, my friend,” said he shuddering, “you do not know all! If she had died here, in the midst of us, comforted by our tender care, my despair would be great; but nothing compared with that which now tortures me. If you only knew⁠—”

M. Plantat rose, as if terrified by what he was about to hear.

“But who can tell,” pursued the wretched man, “where or how she died? Oh, my Laurence, was there no one to hear your last agony and save you? What has become of you, so young and happy?”

He rose, shaking with anguish and cried:

“Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue.” Then he fell back again, muttering the lugubrious word, “the Morgue.”

The witnesses of this scene remained, mute, motionless, rigid, holding their breath. The stifled sobs and groans of Mme. Courtois and the little maid alone broke the silence.

“You know that I am your friend⁠—your best friend,” said M. Plantat, softly; “confide in me⁠—tell me all.”

“Well,” commenced M. Courtois, “know”⁠—but his tears choked his utterance, and he could not go on. Holding out a crumpled letter, wet with tears, he stammered:

“Here, read⁠—it is her last letter.”

M. Plantat approached the table, and, not without difficulty, read:

“Dearly Beloved Parents⁠—

“Forgive, forgive, I beseech you, your unhappy daughter, the distress she is about to cause you. Alas! I have been very guilty, but the punishment is terrible! In a day of wandering, I forgot all⁠—the example and advice of my dear, sainted mother, my most sacred duty, and your tenderness. I could not, no, I could not resist him who wept before me in swearing for me an eternal love⁠—and who has abandoned me. Now, all is over; I am lost, lost. I cannot long conceal my dreadful sin. Oh, dear parents, do not curse me. I am your daughter⁠—I cannot bear to face contempt, I will not survive my dishonor.

“When this letter reaches you, I shall have ceased to live; I shall have quitted my aunt’s, and shall have gone far away, where no one will find me. There I shall end my misery and despair. Adieu, then, oh, beloved parents, adieu! I would that I could, for the last time, beg your forgiveness on my knees. My dear mother, my good father, have pity on a poor wanderer; pardon me, forgive me. Never let my sister Lucile know. Once more, adieu⁠—I have courage⁠—honor commands! For you is the last prayer and supreme thought of your poor

Laurence.”

Great tears rolled silently down the old man’s cheeks as he deciphered this sad letter. A cold, mute, terrible anger shrivelled the muscles of his face. When he had finished, he said, in a hoarse voice:

“Wretch!”

M. Courtois heard this exclamation.

“Ah, yes, wretch indeed,” he cried, “this vile villain who has crept in in the dark, and stolen my dearest treasure, my darling child! Alas, she knew nothing of life. He whispered into her ear those fond words which make the hearts of all young girls throb; she had faith in him; and now he abandons her. Oh, if I knew who he was⁠—if I knew⁠—”

He suddenly interrupted himself. A ray of intelligence had just illumined the abyss of despair into which he had fallen.

“No,” said he, “a young girl is not thus abandoned, when she has a dowry of a million, unless for some good reason. Love passes away; avarice remains. The infamous wretch was not free⁠—he was married. He could only be the Count de Trémorel. It is he who has killed my child.”

The profound silence which succeeded proved to him that his conjecture was shared by those around him.

“I was blind, blind!” cried he. “For I received him at my house, and called him my friend. Oh, have I not a right to a terrible vengeance?”

But the crime at Valfeuillu occurred to him; and it was with a tone of deep disappointment that he resumed:

“And not to be able to revenge myself! I could riot, then, kill him with my own hands, see him suffer for hours, hear him beg for mercy! He is dead. He has fallen under the blows of assassins, less vile than himself.”

The doctor