M. Fortunat's knowledge of the importance of the game in which he
had already risked so much had already restored his presence of
mind. He had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of
Madame d'Argeles's character; and he realized that it would
require a sudden, powerful, and well-directed blow to shatter her
composure. "I have the unpleasant duty of informing you of a
great misfortune, madame," he began. "A person who is very dear
to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a
frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning."
This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect
on Madame d'Argeles. "Whom are you speaking of?" she coldly
asked.
M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: "Of your
brother, madame--of the Count de Chalusse."
She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to
foot. "Raymond is dead!" she faltered.
"Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was
repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de
Homburg."
This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the
agent thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was
acquainted with previous events. But Madame d'Argeles did not
seem to notice, or even to hear the remark. She had fallen back
in her arm-chair, paler than death. "How did he die?" she asked.
"From an attack of apoplexy."
"My God!" exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the
truth; "my God, forgive me.
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