Caught in the Net by Emile Gaboriau (the ebook reader .txt) 📕

torture of suspense upon his young friend a moment longer than was necessary.

“This morning, about twelve o’clock, as I was crossing the Avenue de Matignon, I saw Modeste, who had been waiting for you more than an hour.”

“I could not help it.”

“I know that. As soon as she saw me, she ran up to me at once. She was terribly disappointed at not having seen you; but knowing our intimacy, she intrusted me with a letter for you from Mademoiselle de Mussidan.”

Andre shuddered; he felt that the note contained evil tidings, with which De Breulh was already acquainted. “Give it to me,” said he, and with trembling hands he tore open the letter and perused its contents.

“DEAREST ANDRE,—

“I love you, and shall ever continue to do so, but I have duties—most holy ones—which I must fulfil; duties which my name and position demand of me, even should the act cost me my life. We shall never meet again in this world, and this letter is the last one you will ever receive from me. Before long you will see the announcement of my marriage. Pity me, for great as your wretchedness will be, it will be as nothing compared to mine. Heaven have mercy upon us both! Andre, try and tear me out of your heart. I have not even the right to die, and oh, my darling, this—this is the last word you will ever receive from your poor unhappy

“SABINE.”

If M. de Breulh had insisted upon taking Andre home with him before he handed him the letter, it was because Modeste had given him some inkling of its contents. He feared that the effect would be tremendous upon nerves so highly strung and sensitive as those of Andre. But he need not have been alarmed on this point. As the young painter mastered the contents of the letter his features became ghastly pale, and a shudder convulsed every nerve and muscle of his frame. With a mechanical gesture he extended the paper to M. de Breulh, uttering the one word, “Read.”

His friend obeyed him, more alarmed by Andre’s laconism than he could have been by some sudden explosion of passion.

“Do not lose heart,” exclaimed he.

But Andre interrupted him. “Lose heart!” said he; “you do not know me. When Sabine was ill, perhaps dying, far away from me, I did feel cast down; but now that she tells me that she loves me, my feelings are of an entirely different nature.”

M. de Breulh was about to speak, but Andre went on.

“What is this marriage contract which my poor Sabine announces to me, as if it was her death-warrant? Her parents must all along have intended to break with you, but you were beforehand with them. Can they have received a more advantageous offer of marriage already? It is scarcely likely. When she confided the secret of her life to you, she certainly knew nothing of this. What terrible event has happened since then? My brave Sabine would never have submitted unless some coercion had been used that she could not struggle against; she would rather have quitted her father’s house for ever.”

As Andre uttered these words De Breulh’s mind was busy with similar reflections, for Modeste had given him some hint of the approaching marriage, and had begged him to be most careful how he communicated the facts to Andre.

“You must have noticed,” continued the young painter, “the strange coincidence between Sabine’s illness and this note. You left her happy and full of hope, and an hour afterward she falls senseless, as though struck by lightning; as soon as she recovers a little she sends me this terrible letter. Do you remember that Madame de Bois Arden told us that during Sabine’s illness her father and mother never left her bedside? Was not this for fear lest some guilty secret of theirs might escape her lips in a crisis of delirium?”

“Yes, I remember that, and I have long had reason to imagine that there is some terrible family secret in the Mussidans’ family, such as we too often find among the descendants of noble houses.”

“What can it be?”

“That I have no means of ascertaining, but that there is one I am sure.”

Andre turned away and paced rapidly up and down the room. “Yes,” said he, suddenly, “there is a mystery; but you and I will leave no stone unturned until we penetrate it.” He drew a chair close to the side of his friend, who was reclining on a couch. “Listen,” said he, “and correct me if you fancy that I am not right in what I am saying. Do you believe that the most terrible necessity alone has compelled Sabine to write this letter?”

“Most certainly.”

“Both the Count and Countess were willing to accept you as their son-in-law?”

“Exactly so.”

“Could M. de Mussidan have found a more brilliant match for his daughter, one who could unite so many advantages of experience and education to so enormous a fortune?”

De Breulh could hardly repress a smile.

“I am not wishing to pay you a compliment,” said Andre impatiently. “Reply to my question.”

“Very well then, I admit that according to the opinion of the world, I was a most eligible suitor, and that M. de Mussidan would find it hard to replace me.”

“Then tell me how it comes about that neither the Count nor the Countess has made any effort to prevent this rupture?”

“Their pride, perhaps, has been wounded.”

“Not so, for Modeste tells us that on the very day you sent the letter the Count was going to call on you to break off the engagement.”

“Yes, that is so, if we are to believe Modeste.”

As if to give more emphasis to his words, Andre started to his feet. “This,” cried he, “this man, who has so suddenly appeared upon the scene, will marry Sabine, not only against her own will, but against that of her parents, and for what reason? Who is this man, and what is the mysterious power that he possesses? His power is too great to spring from an honorable source. Sabine is sacrificing herself to this man for some reason or other, and he, like a dastardly cur, is ready to take advantage of the nobleness of her heart.”

“I admit the correctness of your supposition,” said he; “and now, how do you propose to act?”

“I shall do nothing as yet,” answered the young man, with a fierce gleam in his eyes. “Sabine asks me to tear her from my heart. I will affect to do so for the time. Modeste believes in me, and will help me. I have patience. The villain who has wrecked my life does not know me, and I will only reveal myself upon the day that I hold him helpless in my hand.”

“Take care, Andre,” urged De Breulh; “a false step would ruin your hopes for ever.”