“It is a frightful accident,” said one,--“such a pretty girl, and
so young too!”
“As to me,” said another, “it is the driver that I pity the most;
for after all, if that pretty miss was in that carriage, it was for
her own pleasure; whereas, the poor coachman was only attending to
his business.”
A confused presentiment oppressed M. de Tregars’ heart. Addressing
himself to one of those worthy citizens,
“Have you heard any particulars?”
Flattered by the confidence,
“Certainly I have,” he replied. “I didn’t see the thing with my
own proper eyes; but my wife did. It was terrible. The carriage,
a magnificent private carriage too, came from the direction of the
Madeleine. The horses had run away; and already there had been an
accident in the Place du Chateau d’Eau, where an old woman had been
knocked down. Suddenly, here, over there, opposite the toy-shop,
which is mine, by the way, the wheel of the carriage catches into
the wheel of an enormous truck; and at once, palata! the coachman
is thrown down, and so is the lady, who was inside,--a very
pretty girl, who lives in this hotel.”
Leaving there the obliging narrator, M. de Tregars rushed through
the narrow corridor of the Hotel des Folies. At the moment when
he reached the yard, he found himself in presence of Maxence.
Pale, his head bare, his eyes wild, shaking with a nervous chill,
the poor fellow looked like a madman. Noticing M. de Tregars,
“Ah, my friend!” he exclaimed, “what misfortune!”
“Lucienne?”
“Dead, perhaps. The doctor will not answer for her recovery. I
am going to the druggist’s to get a prescription.”
He was interrupted by the commissary of police, whose kind
protection had hitherto preserved Mlle. Lucienne. He was coming
out of the little room on the ground-floor, which the Fortins used
for an office, bedroom, and dining-room.
He had recognized Marius de Tregars, and, coming up to him, he
pressed his hand, saying, “Well, you know?”
“Yes.”
“It is my fault, M. le Marquis; for we were fully notified. I knew
so well that Mlle. Lucienne’s existence was threatened, I was so
fully expecting a new attempt upon her life, that, whenever she went
out riding, it was one of my men, wearing a footman’s livery, who
took his seat by the side of the coachman. To-day my man was so
busy, that I said to myself, ‘Bash, for once!’ And behold the
consequences!”
It was with inexpressible astonishment that Maxence was listening.
It was with a profound stupor that he discovered between Marius and
the commissary that serious intimacy which is the result of long
intercourse, real esteem, and common hopes.
“It is not an accident, then,” remarked M. de Tregars.
“The coachman has spoken, doubtless?”
“No: the wretch was killed on the spot.”
And, without waiting for another question,
“But don’t let us stay here,” said the commissary.
“Whilst Maxence runs to the drug-store, let us go into the Fortins’
office.”
The husband was alone there, the wife being at that moment with
Mlle. Lucienne.
“Do me the favor to go and take a walk for about fifteen minutes,”
said the commissary to him. “We have to talk, this gentleman and
myself.”
Humbly, without a word, and like a man who does himself justice,
M. Fortin slipped off.
And at once,--“It is clear, M. le Marquis, it is manifest, that a
crime has been committed. Listen, and judge for yourself. I was
just rising from dinner, when I was notified of what was called
our poor Lucienne’s accident. Without even changing my clothes, I
ran. The carriage was lying in the street, broken to pieces. Two
policemen were holding the horses, which had been stopped. I
inquire. I learn that Lucienne, picked up by Maxence, has been able
to drag herself as far as the Hotel des Folies, and that the driver
has been taken to the nearest drug-store. Furious at my own
negligence, and tormented by vague suspicions, it is to the druggist’s
that I go first, and in all haste. The driver was in a backroom,
stretched on a mattress.
“His head having struck the angle of the curbstone, his skull was
broken; and he had just breathed his last. It was, apparently, the
annihilation of the hope which I had, of enlightening myself by
questioning this man. Nevertheless, I give orders to have him
searched. No paper is discovered upon him to establish his identity;
but, in one of the pockets of his pantaloons, do you know what they
find? Two bank-notes of a thousand francs each, carefully wrapped
up in a fragment of newspaper.”