It was my letter that killed him!"
and she wept as if her heart were breaking--this woman who had
suffered and wept so much.
It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he
always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but
in the present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the
satisfaction he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so
completely. Madame d'Argeles had confessed everything! This was
indeed a victory, for it must be admitted that he had trembled
lest she should deny all, and bid him leave the house. He still
saw many difficulties between his pocket and the Count de
Chalusse's money; but he did not despair of conquering them after
such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words of
consolation, when Madame d'Argeles suddenly looked up and said: "I
must see him--I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!" But a
terrible memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing
gesture, and in a voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed:
"No, no--I cannot even do that."
M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of
something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame
d'Argeles, who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently,
with her face hidden on the arm of her chair. "What prevents
her?" he thought. "Why this sudden terror now that her brother is
dead? Is she unwilling to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must
make up her mind to it, however, if she wishes to receive the
count's property--and she must make up her mind to it, for my
sake, if not for her own.
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