LITMIR.BIZ

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my most sacred duty, and your tenderness. I could not, no, I could not resist him who wept before me in swearing for me an eternal love—and who has abandoned me. Now, all is over; I am lost, lost. I cannot long conceal my dreadful sin. Oh, dear parents, do not curse me. I am your daughter—I cannot bear to face contempt, I will not survive my dishonor.

      “When this letter reaches you, I shall have ceased to live; I shall have quitted my aunt’s, and shall have gone far away, where no one will find me. There I shall end my misery and despair. Adieu, then, oh, beloved parents, adieu! I would that I could, for the last time, beg your forgiveness on my knees. My dear mother, my good father, have pity on a poor wanderer; pardon me, forgive me. Never let my sister Lucile know. Once more, adieu—I have courage—honor commands! For you is the last prayer and supreme thought of your poor Laurence .”

      Great tears rolled silently down the old man’s cheeks as he deciphered this sad letter. A cold, mute, terrible anger shrivelled the muscles of his face. When he had finished, he said, in a hoarse voice:

      “Wretch!”

      M. Courtois heard this exclamation.

      “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?”

      M. Plantat sighed heavily.

      “Though I detest mixing up with what does not concern me, I did try one day to talk with her. With infinite precaution and delicacy, and without letting her see that I knew all, I tried to show her the abyss near which

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