"Yes," pursued M. Plantat, "your astonishing genius for penetrating
dramas like this has led you to the truth. But you do not know all, and
even now I would hold my tongue, had not the reasons which compelled me
to be silent ceased to exist."
He opened a secret drawer in an old oaken desk near the fireplace and
took out a large paper package, which he laid on the table.
"For four years," he resumed, "I have followed, day by day--I might say,
hour by hour--the various phases of the dreadful drama which ended in
blood last night at Valfeuillu. At first, the curiosity of an old
retired attorney prompted me. Later, I hoped to save the life and honor
of one very dear to me. Why did I say nothing of my discoveries? That,
my friends, is the secret of my conscience--it does not reproach me.
Besides, I shut my eyes to the evidence even up to yesterday; I needed
the brutal testimony of this deed!"
Day had come. The frightened blackbirds flew whistling by. The pavement
resounded with the wooden shoes of the workmen going fieldward. No noise
troubled the sad stillness of the library, unless it were the rustling
of the leaves which M. Plantat was turning over, or now and then a groan
from Robelot.
"Before commencing," said the old man, "I ought to consider your
weariness; we have been up twenty-four hours--"
But the others protested that they did not need repose. The fever of
curiosity had chased away their exhaustion. They were at last to know
the key of the mystery.
"Very well," said their host, "listen to me."