She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat: “Explain yourself,” she said, briefly.
M. Fortunat’s knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d’Argeles’s character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and well-directed blow to shatter her composure. “I have the unpleasant duty of informing you of a great misfortune, madame,” he began. “A person who is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning.”
This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on Madame d’Argeles. “Whom are you speaking of?” she coldly asked.
M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: “Of your brother, madame—of the Count de Chalusse.”
She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. “Raymond is dead!” she faltered.
“Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de Homburg.”
This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the agent thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was acquainted with previous events. But Madame d’Argeles did not seem to notice, or even to hear the remark. She had fallen back in her arm-chair, paler than death. “How did he die?” she asked.
“From an attack of apoplexy.”
“My God!” exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the truth; “my God, forgive me. It was my letter that killed him!” and she wept as if her heart were breaking—this woman who had suffered and wept so much.
It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but in the present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the satisfaction he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so completely. Madame d’Argeles had confessed everything! This was indeed a victory, for it must be admitted that he had trembled lest she should deny all, and bid him leave the house. He still saw many difficulties between his pocket and the Count de Chalusse’s money; but he did not despair of conquering them after such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words of consolation, when Madame d’Argeles suddenly looked up and said: “I must see him—I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!” But a terrible memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing gesture, and in a voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed: