“Ah! do not believe a word of those infamous stories,” broke in Papa Ravinet’s sister.
But the old man scratched his head, and said,—
“No, certainly not! We ought not to believe such stories. And yet, I wonder if there is not some new trick in that. Unless, indeed—But no, that would be almost too lucky for us! Unless Sarah should really love M. Champcey!”
And, as if he was afraid of having given rise to hopes which he founded upon this contingency, he added at once,—
“But let us return to facts. When Sarah was sure of you, she turned her attention to your father. While they were murdering you slowly, she abused the inexperience of Count Ville-Handry to lead him into a path at the end of which he could not but leave his honor behind him. Notice, pray, that the articles which you read are dated on the very day on which you would probably have died. That is a clear evidence of her crime. Thinking that she had gotten rid of you, she evidently said to herself, ‘And now for the father.’”
Henrietta grew red in her face, as if a jet of fire had blazed up in it. She exclaimed,—
“Great God! The proofs are coming out; the crime will be disclosed. I have no doubt the assassins told each other that Count Ville-Handry would never survive such a foul stain on his honor. And they dared all, sure as they were that that honorable man would carry the secret of their wickedness and of their unheard-of robbery with him to the grave.”
Papa Ravinet leisurely wiped the perspiration from his brow. Then he replied in a hoarse voice,—
“Yes, that was probably, that was assuredly, the way Sarah Brandon reasoned within herself.”
But Henrietta, full of admirable energy, had roused herself; and, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes, she said to him,—