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

my deceased father. In whose service did he perish? Poor old man! he loved you devotedly. His last words were of you. ‘A terrible thing has just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The young marquise hated Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. Had it not been for me she would have been lost. I am about to die; let the whole blame rest upon me; it will not hurt me, and it will save the young lady. And afterward she will reward you; and as long as you keep the secret you will want for nothing.’ ”

Great as was his impudence, he paused, amazed by the perfectly composed face of the listener.

In the presence of such wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his father’s story.

The courage and heroism displayed by the marquise were really wonderful. She felt if she yielded once, she would forever be at the mercy of this wretch, as she was already at the mercy of Aunt Medea.

“In other words,” said she, calmly, “you accuse me of the murder of Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to denounce me if I do not yield to your demands.”

Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence.

“Very well!” said the marquise; “since this is the case⁠—go!”

It seemed, indeed, as if she would, by her audacity, win this dangerous game upon which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing there undecided what course to pursue when Aunt Medea, who was listening by the window, turned in affright, crying:

“Blanche! your husband⁠—Martial! He is coming!”

The game was lost. Blanche saw her husband entering, finding Chupin, conversing with him, and discovering all!

Her brain whirled; she yielded.

She hastily thrust her purse in Chupin’s hand and dragged him through an inner door and to the servants’ staircase.

“Take this,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will see you again. And not a word⁠—not a word to my husband, remember!”

She had been wise to yield in time. When she re-entered the salon, she found Martial there.

His head was bowed upon his breast; he held an open letter in his hand.

He looked up when his wife entered the room, and she saw a tear in his eye.

“What has happened?” she faltered.

Martial did not remark her emotion.

“My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied.

“The Duc de Sairmeuse! My God! how did it happen?”

“He was thrown from his horse, in the forest, near the Sanguille rocks.”

“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”

“Yes, it is the very place.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that his father had but little love for him. He was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death.

“From this letter which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I judge that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I⁠—I⁠—”

“Well?”

“I believe he was murdered.”

An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.

“Murdered!” she whispered.

“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. The murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de Courtornieu⁠—”

“Jean Lacheneur!”

Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.

“And you will not denounce him? You will not demand justice?”

Martial’s face grew more and more gloomy.

“What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no material proofs to give, and justice demands incontestable evidence.”

Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he said, despondently:

“The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they have sown. The blood of murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes.”

Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had he intended his words for her, he would not have expressed himself differently.

“Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy revery, “Martial.”

He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, he continued:

“These Lacheneurs were happy and honored before our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. We did not understand this; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a fault for which we must atone. Who knows but, in Jean Lacheneur’s place, I should have done what he has done?”

He was silent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed:

“I know Jean Lacheneur. I alone can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach. And no precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt, I know not; but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever threatens our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.”

Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room.

At last he paused before his wife.

“I have just ordered post-horses. You will excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once. I shall not be absent more than a week.”

He departed from Paris a few hours later, and Blanche was left a prey to the most intolerable anxiety. She suffered more now than during the days that immediately followed her crime. It was not against phantoms she was obliged to protect herself now; Chupin existed, and his voice, even if it were not as terrible as the voice