Monsieur Lecoq - Émile Gaboriau (inspiring books for teens txt) 📗

She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, although she was neither tenderhearted nor impressionable.

“My father!” she faltered. “Good heavens! what has happened?”

He uttered a discordant laugh.

“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; have I not seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month⁠—for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees. I was returning slowly, thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to bar my passage. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired⁠—”

The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and persistent look that is said to exercise such power over those who have lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said, almost roughly:

“Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.”

Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name.

But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative.

“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who confronted me. I am sure of it, and the proof is, that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with the émigrés. My property had been confiscated; and every moment I was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house. He concealed me; he furnished me with a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head⁠—I sentenced him to death. That is the reason why I have seen him again. I must rejoin him; he told me so⁠—I am a dying man!”

He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and, lying there, rigid and motionless, one might readily have supposed it was a corpse, whose outlines could be vaguely discerned through the bed-coverings.

Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances. Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur.

Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said:

“It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been killed.”

“How do you know this?”

“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.”

The worthy valet de chambre was certainly more agitated than the daughter.

“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”

The servant shook his head.

“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man⁠—Chupin.”

“No, it could not have been he.”

“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.”

Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from him. She was silent.

In a few moments the physician arrived. He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face⁠—he was almost compelled to use force to do it⁠—examined the patient with evident anxiety, then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. All was bustle and confusion.

When the physician left the sickroom, Mme. Blanche followed him.

“Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look.

With considerable hesitation, he replied: “People sometimes recover from such attacks.”

It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost prestige was now afforded her. If she desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must improvise for herself an entirely different reputation. If she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once.

Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching and delicate attentions upon a sick father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment. It was only with great difficulty that they could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the sickroom.

But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slow the day appointed for the meeting was in coming!

It came at last, however, and after entrusting her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape.

The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place.

“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche.

“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.”

“What! you have not watched the marquis?”

“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow. But what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize him! He is always busy now. He is up at cockcrow and he goes to bed with the