“I knew she was in great danger; yes, Monsieur. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a restaurant at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son entered. ‘Is this you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ I ran here like one crazed. But when fate is against a man, what can he do? I came too late!”
The abbe reflected for a moment.
“Then you suppose that it was Chupin?”
“I do not suppose, sir; I swear that it was he—the miserable traitor!—who committed this foul deed.”
“Still, what motive could he have had?”
Jean burst into one of those discordant laughs that are, perhaps, the most frightful signs of despair.
“You may rest assured that the blood of the daughter will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the vile instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of an army of valets at Sairmeuse, in short!”
“Wretched man, what do you mean?”
“What I say.”
And coldly, he added: