All M. Lecoq's anticipations were realized. Laurence was not dead, and
her letter to her parents was an odious trick. It was really she who
lived in the house as Mme. Wilson. How had the lovely young girl, so
much beloved by the old justice, come to such a dreadful extremity? The
logic of life, alas, fatally enchains all our determinations to each
other. Often an indifferent action, little wrongful in itself, is the
beginning of an atrocious crime. Each of our new resolutions depends
upon those which have preceded it, and is their logical sequence just as
the sum-total is the product of the added figures. Woe to him who, being
seized with a dizziness at the brink of the abyss, does not fly as fast
as possible, without turning his head; for soon, yielding to an
irresistible attraction, he approaches, braves the danger, slips, and is
lost. Whatever thereafter he does or attempts he will roll down the
faster, until he reaches the very bottom of the gulf.
Tremorel had by no means the implacable character of an assassin; he was
only feeble and cowardly; yet he had committed abominable crimes. All
his guilt came from the first feeling of envy with which he regarded
Sauvresy, and which he had not taken the pains to subdue. Laurence,
when, on the day that she became enamoured of Tremorel, she permitted
him to press her hand, and kept it from her mother, was lost. The
hand-pressure led to the pretence of suicide in order to fly with her
lover. It might also lead to infanticide.
Poor Laurence, when she was left alone by Hector's departure to the
Faubourg St. Germain, on receiving M. Lecoq's letter, began to reflect
upon the events of the past year. How unlooked-for and rapidly
succeeding they had been! It seemed to her that she had been whirled
along in a tempest, without a second to think or act freely. She asked
herself if she were not a prey to some hideous nightmare, and if she
should not presently awake in her pretty maidenly chamber at Orcival.
Was it really she who was there in a strange house, dead to everyone,
leaving behind a withered memory, reduced to live under a false name,
without family or friends henceforth, or anyone in the world to help her
feebleness, at the mercy of a fugitive like herself, who was free to
break to-morrow the bonds of caprice which to-day bound him to her? Was
it she, too, who was about to become a mother, and found herself
suffering from the excessive misery of blushing for that maternity which
is the pride of pure young wives? A thousand memories of her past life
flocked through her brain and cruelly revived her despair. Her heart
sank as she thought of her old friendships, of her mother, her sister,
the pride of her innocence, and the pure joys of the home fireside.
As she half reclined on a divan in Hector's library, she wept freely.
She bewailed her life, broken at twenty, her lost youth, her vanished,
once radiant hopes, the world's esteem, and her own self-respect, which
she should never recover.
Of a sudden the door was abruptly opened.
Laurence thought it was Hector returned, and she hastily rose, passing
her handkerchief across her face to try to conceal her tears.
A man whom she did not know stood upon the threshold, respectfully
bowing. She was afraid, for Tremorel had said to her many times within
the past two days, "We are pursued; let us hide well;" and though it
seemed to her that she had nothing to fear, she trembled without knowing
why.
"Who are you?" she asked, haughtily, "and who has admitted you here?
What do you want?"
M. Lecoq left nothing to chance or inspiration; he foresaw everything,
and regulated affairs in real life as he would the scenes in a theatre.
He expected this very natural indignation and these questions, and was
prepared for them. The only reply he made was to step one side, thus
revealing M. Plantat behind him.
Laurence was so much overcome on recognizing her old friend, that, in
spite of her resolution, she came near falling.
"You!" she stammered; "you!"
The old justice was, if possible, more agitated than Laurence. Was that
really his Laurence there before him? Grief had done its work so well
that she seemed old.
"Why did you seek for me?" she resumed. "Why add another grief to my
life? Ah, I told Hector that the letter he dictated to me would not be
believed. There are misfortunes for which death is the only refuge."
M. Plantat was about to reply, but Lecoq was determined to take the lead
in the interview.
"It is not you, Madame, that we seek," said he, "but Monsieur de
Tremorel."
"Hector! And why, if you please? Is he not free?"
M. Lecoq hesitated before shocking the poor girl, who had been but too
credulous in trusting to a scoundrel's oaths of fidelity. But he thought
that the cruel truth is less harrowing than the suspense of intimations.
"Monsieur de Tremorel," he answered, "has committed a great crime."
"He! You lie, sir."
The detective sorrowfully shook his head.
"Unhappily I have told you the truth. Monsieur de Tremorel murdered his
wife on Wednesday night. I am a detective and I have a warrant to arrest
him."
He thought this terrible charge would overwhelm Laurence; he was
mistaken. She was thunderstruck, but she stood firm. The crime horrified
her, but it did not seem to her entirely improbable, knowing as she did
the hatred with which Hector was inspired by Bertha.
"Well, perhaps he did," cried she, sublime in her energy and despair; "I
am his accomplice, then--arrest me."
This cry, which seemed to proceed from the most senseless passion,
amazed the old justice, but did not surprise M. Lecoq.
"No, Madame," he resumed, "you are not this man's accomplice. Besides,
the murder of his wife is the least of his crimes. Do you know why he
did not marry you? Because in concert with Bertha, he poisoned Monsieur
Sauvresy, who saved his life and was his best friend. We have the proof
of it."
This was more than poor Laurence could bear; she staggered and fell upon
a sofa. But she did not doubt the truth of what M. Lecoq said. This
terrible revelation tore away the veil which, till then, had hidden the
past from her. The poisoning of Sauvresy explained all Hector's conduct,
his position, his fears, his promises, his lies, his hate, his
recklessness, his marriage, his flight. Still she tried not to defend
him, but to share the odium of his crimes.
"I knew it," she stammered, in a voice broken by sobs, "I knew it all."
The old justice was in despair.
"How you love him, poor child!" murmured he.
This mournful exclamation restored to Laurence all her energy; she made
an effort and rose, her eyes glittering with indignation:
"I love him!" cried she. "I! Ah, I can explain my conduct to you, my old
friend, for you are worthy of hearing it. Yes, I did love him, it is
true--loved him to the forgetfulness of duty, to self-abandonment. But
one day he showed himself to me as he was; I judged him, and my love did
not survive my contempt. I was ignorant of Sauvresy's horrible death.
Hector confessed to me that his life and honor were in Bertha's
hands--and that she loved him. I left him free to abandon me, to marry,
thus sacrificing more than my life to what I thought was his happiness;
yet I was not deceived. When I fled with him I once more sacrificed
myself, when I saw that it was impossible to conceal my shame. I wanted
to die. I lived, and wrote an infamous letter to my mother, and yielded
to Hector's prayers, because he pleaded with me in the name of my--of
our child!"
M. Lecoq, impatient at the loss of time, tried to say something; but
Laurence would not listen to him.
"But what matter?" she continued. "I loved him, followed him, and am
his! Constancy at all hazards is the only excuse for a fault like mine.
I will do my duty. I cannot be innocent when Hector has committed a
crime; I desire to suffer half the punishment."
She spoke with such remarkable animation that the detective despaired of
calming her, when two whistles in the street struck his ear. Tremorel
was returning and there was not a moment to be lost. He suddenly seized
Laurence by the arm.
"You will tell all this to the judges, Madame," said he, sternly. "My
orders are only for M. de Tremorel. Here is the warrant to arrest him."
He took out the warrant and laid it upon the table. Laurence, by the
force of her will, had become almost calm.
"You will let me speak five minutes with the Count de Tremorel, will you
not?" she asked.