“Ah, my friend!” he exclaimed, “what misfortune!”
“Lucienne?”
“Dead, perhaps. The doctor will not answer for her recovery. I am going to the druggist’s to get a prescription.”
He was interrupted by the commissary of police, whose kind protection had hitherto preserved Mlle. Lucienne. He was coming out of the little room on the ground-floor, which the Fortins used for an office, bedroom, and dining-room.
He had recognized Marius de Tregars, and, coming up to him, he pressed his hand, saying, “Well, you know?”
“Yes.”
“It is my fault, M. le Marquis; for we were fully notified. I knew so well that Mlle. Lucienne’s existence was threatened, I was so fully expecting a new attempt upon her life, that, whenever she went out riding, it was one of my men, wearing a footman’s livery, who took his seat by the side of the coachman. To-day my man was so busy, that I said to myself, ‘Bash, for once!’ And behold the consequences!”
It was with inexpressible astonishment that Maxence was listening. It was with a profound stupor that he discovered between Marius and the commissary that serious intimacy which is the result of long intercourse, real esteem, and common hopes.
“It is not an accident, then,” remarked M. de Tregars.
“The coachman has spoken, doubtless?”