"But who can tell," pursued the wretched man, "where or how she died?
Oh, my Laurence, was there no one to hear your last agony and save you?
What has become of you, so young and happy?"
He rose, shaking with anguish and cried:
"Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue." Then he fell back
again, muttering the lugubrious word, "the Morgue."
The witnesses of this scene remained, mute, motionless, rigid, holding
their breath. The stifled sobs and groans of Mme. Courtois and the
little maid alone broke the silence.
"You know that I am your friend--your best friend," said M. Plantat,
softly; "confide in me--tell me all."
"Well," commenced M. Courtois, "know"--but his tears choked his
utterance, and he could not go on. Holding out a crumpled letter, wet
with tears, he stammered:
"Here, read--it is her last letter."