The Champdoce Mystery by Emile Gaboriau (crime books to read TXT) 📕

“You said that the effect was immediate.”

“I did say so, and I thought so too. Ah, if I had but reflected a little! You will however see that I do not intend to give in without a fight. I will defend myself by accusing you. I am an honest man, and have been your dupe. You have thought to make me a mere tool; your fine Norbert is a fool, but he will pay for his doings with his head all the same.”

At these gross insults Mademoiselle de Laurebourg rose to her feet and attempted to speak, but he cut her short.

“I can’t stop to pick and choose my words, for I feel at the present moment as if the axe of the guillotine were suspended over my head. Now just oblige me by getting out of this, and never show your face here again.”

“As you like. I will communicate with Champdoce.”

“You shall not,” exclaimed Daumon with a gesture of menace. “You might as well go and ask how the Duke enjoyed the taste of the poison.”

His words, however, did not deter Diana, for any risk seemed preferable to her than the present state of suspense.

With a glance of contempt at the Counsellor she left the cottage, determined to act as she thought fit.

After Diana’s departure, Daumon felt too that he must learn how matters were going on, and going over to the Widow Rouleau’s, he despatched her daughter Francoise to the Chateau de Champdoce, under the pretext that he wanted some money which he had lent to one of the Duke’s servants. He had instructed the girl so cunningly that she had no suspicion of the real end and object of her mission, and set out on it with the most implicit confidence. He had not long to wait for her return, for in about half an hour his messenger returned.

“Well,” said he anxiously, “has the scamp sent my money?”

“No, sir, I am sorry to say that I could not even get to speak to him.”

“How was that? Was he not at Champdoce?”

“I cannot even tell you that. Ever since the Duke has been ill, the great gates of the Chateau have been bolted, for it seems that the poor old gentleman is at his last gasp.”

“Did you not hear what was the matter with him?”

“No, sir, the little I have told you I got from a stable boy, who spoke to me through a grating in the gate, but before he could say ten words Jean came up and sent him off.”

“Do you mean Jean, the Duke’s confidential man?”

“Just so,” returned the girl, “and very angry he was. He abused the lad and told him to be off to the stables, and then asked, ‘Well, my girl, and pray what do you want?’ I told him that I had come with a message to the man Mechenit; but before I could say any more he broke in with, ‘Well, he isn’t here, you can call again in a month.’”

“You silly little fool, was that all you said?”

“Not quite, for I said that I must see Mechenit. Then, looking at me very suspiciously, he said, ‘And who sent you here, you little spy?’”

The Counsellor started.

“Indeed! and what did you say in return?” asked he.

“Why, of course I said that you had sent me.”

“Yes, yes, that was right.”

“And then Jean rubbed his hand over his chin, and looking at me very curiously, said sternly,—

“‘So you have come from the Counsellor, have you? Ah, I see it all, and so shall he one of these days.’”

At these words Daumon felt his knees give way under him; but all further questioning was stopped by the appearance of M. de Puymandour on his way to Champdoce. He therefore dismissed Francoise, and awaited the return of this gentleman, from whom he hoped to gain the fullest information regarding the Duke’s malady. The intelligence which he received calmed him a little, and repenting of his treatment of Diana, he went and hung about the gates of the Chateau de Laurebourg, until he was lucky enough to catch sight of the girl in the garden, for her anxiety would not permit her to remain in the house. He beckoned to her, and then said,—

“M. Norbert did not make the dose strong enough. The Duke is as strong as a horse; but it is all right, for should he live, he will be an idiot, and so our end is as much gained as if he had died.”

“But why does not Norbert write to me?” asked Diana seriously.

“Why, because he has some faint glimmerings of common sense. How do you know that he may not have half a dozen spies about him? You must wait.”

Diana and the Counsellor waited for a week, but Norbert made no sign. Diana suffered agonies, and the days seemed to pass with leaden feet. Sunday came at last. The Marchioness de Laurebourg had attended early Mass, and had given orders that her daughter should go to high Mass under the escort of her maid. Diana was highly pleased with this arrangement, for she hoped to have a chance of seeing Norbert, but she was disappointed. The Mass had commenced when she entered, but the spot occupied by the Duke and his son was vacant. She followed the service in a purely mechanical manner, and at last noticed that the priest had taken his place in the pulpit.

This was generally an exciting moment for the inhabitants of Bevron, for it was immediately before the sermon that the banns of marriage were published. The priest gazed blandly down upon the expectant crowd, coughed slightly, used his handkerchief, and finally took from his breviary a sheet of paper.

“I have,” said he, “to publish the banns of marriage between——” here he made a little pause, and all the congregation were on the tenterhooks of expectation; “between,” he continued, “Monsieur Louis Norbert, Marquis de Champdoce, a minor, and only legitimate son of Guillaume Caesar, Duke de Champdoce, and of his wife Isabella de Barnaville, now deceased, but who both formerly resided in this parish, and Desiree Anne Marie Palouzet, minor, and legitimate daughter of Rene Augustus Palouzet, Count de Puymandour, and of Zoe Staplet, his wife, but now deceased, also residents of this parish.”

This was the thunderbolt launched from the pulpit, which seemed to crush Diana into the earth, and her heart almost ceased to beat.

“Let any one,” continued the priest, “who knows of any impediment to this marriage, take warning that he or she must acquaint us with it, under the penalty of excommunication. At the same time let him be warned under the same penalty to bring forward nothing in malice or without some foundation.”

An impediment! What irony lay veiled beneath that word. Mademoiselle de Laurebourg knew of more than one. A wild desire filled her heart to start from her seat and cry out,—