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.
M. Lecoq was delighted; he had looked for this request, and expected it.
“Five minutes? Yes,” he replied. “But abandon all hope, Madame, of saving the prisoner; the house is watched; if you look in the
