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

of which I had been guilty; but you⁠—you were ignorant of it. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste.”

He tried to take her hands; she repulsed him with horror; and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing.

Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible and overwhelming.

What humiliation and shame⁠—! Now, indeed, was her cup of sorrow filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure!” he had said. Oh, bitter mockery!

But Martial misunderstood the meaning of the poor girl’s gesture.

“Oh! I comprehend your indignation,” he resumed, with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have been a fool⁠—a miserable fool⁠—for I love you; I love, and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am the possessor of millions. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife.”

Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. Vertigo seized her; even reason seemed to totter upon its throne.

But now, it had been Chanlouineau who, in his prison-cell, cried that he died for love of her. Now, it was Martial who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake.

And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerful Duc de Sairmeuse, had avowed their passion in almost the very same words.

Martial paused, awaiting some response⁠—a word, a gesture. But Marie-Anne remained mute, motionless, frozen.

“You are silent,” he cried, with increased vehemence. “Do you question my sincerity? No, it is impossible! Then why this silence? Do you fear my father’s opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent. Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any need of him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich⁠—immensely rich? I should be a miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid prejudices and the happiness of my life.”

He was evidently obliging himself to weigh all the possible objections, in order to answer them and overrule them.

“Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?” he continued. “Your father and brother are pursued, and France is closed against them. Very well, we will leave France, and they shall come and live near you. Jean will no longer dislike me when you are my wife. We will all live in England or in Italy. Now I am grateful for the fortune that will enable me to make life a continual enchantment for you. I love you⁠—and in the happiness and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I will compel you to forget all the bitterness of the past!”

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand the intensity of the love revealed by these astounding propositions.

And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had won this triumph over his pride in vain.

She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity would carry him, and if a refusal would not transform him into a bitter enemy.

“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evident anxiety.

She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; but she could not unclose her lips.

“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she murmured, at last. “If I accepted your offer, you would regret it continually.”

“Never!”

“But you are no longer free. You have already plighted your troth. Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife.”

“Ah! say one word⁠—only one⁠—and this engagement, which I detest, is broken.”

She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and that she refused his offer.

“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly.

If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth Marie-Anne would have answered “Yes.” The Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with an almost insurmountable aversion.

“I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself, Monsieur,” she faltered.

A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial’s eye.

“Always Maurice!” said he.

“Always.”

She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm.

“Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence. I must believe that you have forced me to play a most ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it.”

The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame to the roots of her hair; but she made no attempt at denial.

“I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I⁠—I obeyed him.”

“That matters little,” he interrupted; “your role has not been that which a pure young girl should play.”

It was the only reproach he had uttered, and still he regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because⁠—as he afterward declared⁠—he could not overcome his love for Marie-Anne.

“Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for Monsieur d’Escorval.”

“Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.”

Martial approached Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice:

“If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.”

She recoiled in terror. He knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate.

But seeing her anguish, he had pity.

“Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save the baron! His blood shed upon the guillotine would form an impassable gulf between Maurice and you. I will join my efforts to yours.”

Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him. How was she about to reward his generosity? By vilely traducing him. Ah! she would infinitely have preferred to see him angry and revengeful.

Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duc de Sairmeuse, still in full uniform, entered.

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him⁠—”

He paused abruptly; he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now.

“The daughter of that scoundrel Lacheneur!” said he, with an air of the utmost surprise. “What does she desire here?”

The decisive moment