"Ah, if you are going to uphold suicide," said Barousse, and leaving the discussion he continued in a softened tone: "Such a fine fellow too, poor Henri! And then Mauperin, and his wife, and his daughter—the whole family plunged into this grief. No, it makes me wild when I think of it. Why, I had known him all his life." Barousse pulled his watch half out of his waistcoat-pocket as he spoke. "There!" he said, breaking off suddenly; "I know it will be sold; I shall have missed The Concert, a superb proof, earlier than the one with the dedication."
Denoisel returned to Briche with M. Mauperin, who, on arriving, went straight upstairs to his wife. He found her in bed, with the blinds down and the curtains drawn, overwhelmed and crushed by her terrible sorrow.
Denoisel opened the drawing-room door and saw Renée, seated on an ottoman, sobbing, with her handkerchief up to her mouth.
"Renée," he said, going to her and taking her hands in his, "some one killed him——"
Renée looked at him and then lowered her eyes.
"That man would never have known; he never read anything and he did not see any one; he lived like a regular wolf; he didn't subscribe to the Moniteur, of course. Do you understand?"
"No," stammered Renée, trembling all over.
"Well, it must have been an enemy who sent the paper to that man. Ah, you can't understand such cowardly things; but that's how it all came about, though. One of his seconds showed me the paper with the paragraph marked——"
Renée was standing up, her eyes wide open with terror; her lips moved and she opened her mouth to speak—to cry out: "I sent it!"