“Still it was he who incited M. de Coralth to do the deed.”
“But why? What could have been his object?”
“To win a young girl whom I love. She—loved me, and he saw that I was an obstacle. He put me out of the way more surely than if he had murdered me. If I died, she might mourn for me—dishonored, she would spurn me——”
“Is Valorsay so madly in love with the girl, then?”
“I think he cares but very little for her.”
“Then why——”
“She is the heiress of several millions.”
It was evident that this explanation did not shake Baron Trigault’s faith in his friend. “But the marquis has an income of a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand francs,” said he; “that is an all-sufficient justification. With his fortune and his name, he is in a position to choose his wife from among all the heiresses of France. Why should he address his attentions in particular to the woman you love? Ah! if he were poor—if his fortune were impaired—if he felt the need of regilding his escutcheon, like my son-in-law——”
He paused; there was a rap at the door. The baron called out: “Come in,” and a valet appeared, and informed his master that the Marquis de Valorsay wished to speak with him.
It was the enemy! Pascal’s features were distorted with rage; but he did not stir—he did not utter a word. “Ask the marquis into the next room,” said the baron. “I will join him there at once.” Then as the servant retired, the baron turned to Pascal and said: “Well, M. Ferailleur, do you divine my intentions?”