Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

“I was there,” said he, pointing to the door, “and⁠—I heard all.”

“Father!”

“What! would you try to defend her after she came here to crush you with her insolent good fortune⁠—after she overwhelmed you with her ironical pity and with her scorn? I tell you they are all like this⁠—these girls, whose heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that in their veins flows a different blood from ours. But patience! The day of reckoning is near at hand!”

Those whom he threatened would have shuddered had they seen him at that moment, so terrible was the rage revealed by his accent, so formidable did he appear.

“And you, my beloved daughter, my poor Marie-Anne, you did not understand the insults she heaped upon you. You are wondering why she should have treated you with such disdain. Ah, well! I will tell you: she imagines that the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.”

Marie-Anne tottered beneath the terrible blow, and a nervous spasm shook her from head to foot.

“Can this be possible?” she exclaimed. “Great God! what shame! what humiliation!”

“And why should this astonish you?” said Lacheneur, coldly. “Have you not expected this ever since the day when you, my devoted daughter, consented, for the sake of my plans, to submit to the attentions of this marquis, whom you loathe as much as I despise?”

“But Maurice! Maurice will despise me! I can bear anything, yes, everything but that.”

M. Lacheneur made no reply. Marie-Anne’s despair was heartbreaking; he felt that he could not bear to witness it, that it would shake his resolution, and he re-entered the house.

But his penetration was not at fault. While waiting to find a revenge which would be worthy of her, Mlle. Blanche armed herself with a weapon of which jealousy and hatred so often avail themselves⁠—calumny.

Two or three abominable stories which she concocted, and which she forced Aunt Medea to circulate everywhere, did not produce the desired effect.

Marie-Anne’s reputation was, of course, ruined by them; but Martial’s visits, instead of ceasing, became longer and more frequent. Dissatisfied with his progress, and fearful that he was being duped, he even watched the house.

So it happened that, one evening, when he was quite sure that Lacheneur, his son, and Chanlouineau were absent, Martial saw a man leave the house and hasten across the fields.

He rushed after him, but the man escaped him.

He believed, however, that he recognized Maurice d’Escorval.

After his son’s confession, M. d’Escorval was prudent enough to make no allusion to the hopes he, himself, entertained.

“My poor Maurice,” he thought, “is heartbroken, but resigned. It is better for him to remain without hope than to be exposed to the danger of another disappointment.”

But passion is not always blind. What the baron concealed, Maurice divined; and he clung to this faint hope as tenaciously as a drowning man clings to the plank which is his only hope of salvation.

If he asked his parents no questions it was only because he was convinced that they would not tell him the truth.

But he watched all that went on in the house with that subtleness of penetration which fever so often imparts.

Not one of his father’s movements escaped his vigilant eye and ear.

Consequently, he heard him put on his boots, ask for his hat, and select a cane from among those standing in the vestibule. He also heard the outer gate grate upon its hinges.

“My father is going out,” he said to himself.

And weak as he was, he succeeded in dragging himself to the window in time to satisfy himself of the truth of his conjectures.

“If my father is going out,” he thought, “it can only be to visit Monsieur Lacheneur⁠—then he has not relinquished all hope.”

An armchair was standing nearby; he sank into it, intending to watch for his father’s return; by doing so, he might know his destiny a few moments sooner.

Three long hours passed before the baron returned.

By his father’s dejected manner he plainly saw that all hope was lost. He was sure of it; as sure as the criminal who reads the fatal verdict in the solemn face of the judge.

He had need of all his energy to regain his couch. For a moment he felt that he was dying.

But he was ashamed of this weakness, which he judged unworthy of him. He determined to know what had passed⁠—to know the details.

He rang, and told the servant that he wished to speak to his father. M. d’Escorval promptly made his appearance.

“Well?” cried Maurice.

M. d’Escorval felt that denial was useless.

“Lacheneur is deaf to my remonstrances and to my entreaties,” he replied, sadly. “Nothing remains for you but to submit, my son. I shall not tell you that time will assuage the sorrow that now seems insupportable⁠—you would not believe me. But I do say to you, that you are a man, and that you must prove your courage. I say even more: fight against thoughts of Marie-Anne as a traveller on the verge of a precipice fights against the thought of vertigo.”

“Have you seen Marie-Anne, father? Have you spoken to her?”

“I found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur.”

“They reject me, and they receive Chanlouineau, perhaps.”

“Chanlouineau is living there.”

“My God! And Martial de Sairmeuse?”

“He is their familiar guest. I saw him there.” That each of these responses fell upon Maurice like a thunderbolt was only too evident.

But M. d’Escorval had armed himself with the impassable courage of a surgeon who does not relax his hold on his instruments because the patient groans and writhes in agony.

M. d’Escorval wished to extinguish the last ray of hope in the heart of his son.

“It is evident that Monsieur Lacheneur has lost his reason!” exclaimed Maurice.

The baron shook his head despondently. “I thought so myself, at first,” he murmured.

“But what does he say in justification of his conduct? He must say something.”

“Nothing; he refuses any explanation.”

“And you, father, with all your knowledge of human nature, with all your wide experience, have not been able to fathom his intentions?”

“I have my suspicions,”