“I understand; but allow me to conclude. According to you, Mademoiselle Marguerite possesses several millions. According to him, she hasn’t a penny of her own. Which is right? I believe he is. His desire to borrow a hundred thousand francs of me proves it; and, besides, he wouldn’t have come this morning to tell me a falsehood, which would be discovered to-morrow. Still, if he is telling the truth, it is impossible to explain the foul conspiracy you have suffered by.”
This objection had previously presented itself to Pascal’s mind, and he had found an explanation which seemed to him a plausible one. “M. de Chalusse was not dead,” said he, “when M. de Coralth and M. de Valorsay decided on this plan of ridding themselves of me. Consequently, Mademoiselle Marguerite was still an heiress.”
“That’s true; but the very day after the commission of the crime, the accomplices must have discovered that it could do them no good; so, why have they still persisted in their scheme?”
Pascal tried to find a satisfactory answer, but failed.
“There must be some iniquitous mystery in this affair, which neither you nor I suspect,” remarked the baron.
“That is exactly what my mother told me.”
“Ah! that’s Madame Ferailleur’s opinion? Then it is a good one. Come, let us reason a little. Mademoiselle Marguerite loved you, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And she has suddenly broken off the engagement?”
“She wrote to me that the Count de Chalusse extorted from her a promise on his death-bed, that she would marry the Marquis de Valorsay.”