"Ah, yes, wretch indeed," he cried, "this vile villain who has crept in
in the dark, and stolen my dearest treasure, my darling child! Alas, she
knew nothing of life. He whispered into her ear those fond words which
make the hearts of all young girls throb; she had faith in him; and now
he abandons her. Oh, if I knew who he was--if I knew--"
He suddenly interrupted himself. A ray of intelligence had just
illumined the abyss of despair into which he had fallen.
"No," said he, "a young girl is not thus abandoned, when she has a dowry
of a million, unless for some good reason. Love passes away; avarice
remains. The infamous wretch was not free--he was married. He could only
be the Count de Tremorel. It is he who has killed my child."
The profound silence which succeeded proved to him that his conjecture
was shared by those around him.
"I was blind, blind!" cried he. "For I received him at my house, and
called him my friend. Oh, have I not a right to a terrible vengeance?"
But the crime at Valfeuillu occurred to him; and it was with a tone of
deep disappointment that he resumed:
"And not to be able to revenge myself! I could riot, then, kill him with
my own hands, see him suffer for hours, hear him beg for mercy! He is
dead. He has fallen under the blows of assassins, less vile than
himself."
The doctor and M. Plantat strove to comfort the unhappy man; but he went
on, excited more and more by the sound of his own voice.
"Oh, Laurence, my beloved, why did you not confide in me? You feared my
anger, as if a father would ever cease to love his child. Lost,
degraded, fallen to the ranks of the vilest, I would still love thee.
Were you not my own? Alas! you knew not a father's heart. A father does
not pardon; he forgets. You might still have been happy, my lost love."
He wept; a thousand memories of the time when Laurence was a child and
played about his knees recurred to his mind; it seemed as though it were
but yesterday.
"Oh, my daughter, was it that you feared the world--the wicked,
hypocritical world? But we should have gone away. I should have left
Orcival, resigned my office. We should have settled down far away, in
the remotest corner of France, in Germany, in Italy. With money all is
possible. All? No! I have millions, and yet my daughter has killed
herself."
He concealed his face in his hands; his sobs choked him.
"And not to know what has become of her!" he continued. "Is it not
frightful? What death did she choose? You remember, Doctor, and you,
Plantat, her beautiful curls about her pure forehead, her great,
trembling eyes, her long curved lashes? Her smile--do you know, it was
the sun's ray of my life. I so loved her voice, and her mouth so fresh,
which gave me such warm, loving kisses. Dead! Lost! And not to know what
has become of her sweet form--perhaps abandoned in the mire of some
river. Do you recall the countess's body this morning? It will kill me!
Oh, my child--that I might see her one hour--one minute--that I might
give her cold lips one last kiss!"
M. Lecoq strove in vain to prevent a warm tear which ran from his eyes,
from falling. M. Lecoq was a stoic on principle, and by profession. But
the desolate words of the poor father overcame him. Forgetting that his
emotion would be seen, he came out from the shadow where he had stood,
and spoke to M. Courtois:
"I, Monsieur Lecoq, of the detectives, give you my honor that I will
find Mademoiselle Laurence's body."
The poor mayor grasped desperately at this promise, as a drowning man to
a straw.
"Oh, yes, we will find her, won't we? You will help me. They say that to
the police nothing is impossible--that they see and know everything. We
will see what has become of my child."
He went toward M. Lecoq, and taking him by the hand:
"Thank you," added he, "you are a good man. I received you ill a while
ago, and judged you with foolish pride: forgive me. We will succeed--you
will see, we will aid each other, we will put all the police on the
scent, we will search through France, money will do it--I have it--I
have millions--take them--"
His energies were exhausted: he staggered and fell heavily on the
lounge.
"He must not remain here long," muttered the doctor in Plantat's ear,
"he must get to bed. A brain fever, after such excitement, would not
surprise me."
The old justice of the peace at once approached Mme. Courtois, who still
reclined in the arm-chair, apparently having seen or heard nothing of
what had passed, and oblivious in her grief.
"Madame!" said he, "Madame!"
She shuddered and rose, with a wandering air.
"It is my fault," said she, "my miserable fault! A mother should read
her daughter's heart as in a book. I did not suspect Laurence's secret;
I am a most unhappy mother."
The doctor also came to her.
"Madame," said he, in an imperious tone, "your husband must be persuaded
to go to bed at once. His condition is very serious, and a little sleep
is absolutely necessary. I will have a potion prepared--"
"Oh, my God!" cried the poor lady, wringing her hands, in the fear of a
new misfortune, as bitter as the first; which, however, restored her to
her presence of mind. She called the servants, who assisted the mayor to
regain his chamber. Mme. Courtois also retired, followed by the doctor.
Three persons only remained in the drawing-room--Plantat, Lecoq, and
Robelot, who still stood near the door.
"Poor Laurence!" murmured Plantat. "Poor girl!"
"It seems to me that her father is most to be pitied," remarked M.
Lecoq. "Such a blow, at his age, may be more than he can bear. Even
should he recover, his life is broken."
"I had a sort of presentiment," said the other, "that this misfortune
would come. I had guessed Laurence's secret, but I guessed it too late."
"And you did not try--"
"What? In a delicate case like this, when the honor of a family depends
on a word, one must be circumspect. What could I do? Put Courtois on his
guard? Clearly not. He would have refused to believe me. He is one of
those men who will listen to nothing, and whom the brutal fact alone can
undeceive."
"You might have dealt with the Count de Tremorel."
"The count would have denied all. He would have asked what right I had
to interfere in his affairs."
"But the girl?"