At last she found it. "Casimir," she said,
authoritatively, "search M. de Chalusse's pocket for the key of
his escritoire."
Astonished by what he regarded as a new caprice, the valet obeyed.
He gathered up the garments strewn over the floor, and eventually
drew a key from one of the waistcoat pockets. Mademoiselle
Marguerite took it from him, and then in a determined tone,
exclaimed: "A hammer."
It was brought; whereupon, to the profound amazement of the
physician, she knelt down beside the fireplace, laid the key upon
one of the andirons, and with a heavy blow of the hammer, broke it
into fragments. "Now," said she, quietly, "my mind will be at
rest. I am certain," she added, turning toward the servants,
"that M. de Chalusse would approve what I have done. When he
recovers, he will have another key made."
The explanation was superfluous. All the servants understood the
motive that had influenced her, and were saying to themselves,
"Mademoiselle is right. It would not do to touch the escritoire
of a dying man. Who knows but what there are millions in it? If
anything were missed, why any of us might be accused. But if the
key is destroyed, it will be impossible to suspect any one."
However, the physician's conjectures were of an entirely different
nature. "What can there be in that escritoire which she desires
to conceal?" he thought.
But there was no excuse for prolonging his visit.
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