“Come!” she shrieked, wild with fear, dragging her niece away. “Come—he is dead!”
Not quite. The traitor had strength to crawl home and knock at the door.
His wife and youngest son were sleeping soundly. His eldest son, who had just returned home, opened the door.
Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, he thought he was intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house, but the old poacher begged him to desist.
“Do not touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me; but listen; Lacheneur’s daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool!”
And he died, without being able to tell his family where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood.
CHAPTER XLVII
Of all the persons who witnessed Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall, the abbe was the only one who did not despair.
What a learned doctor would not have dared to do, he did.