“Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.” The priest recoiled, really appalled by the looks and manner of the grief-stricken man.
“You are mad!” he said, severely.
But Jean gravely shook his head.
“If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied, “it is only because you are ignorant of Martial’s wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wished to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse this honor; that was a crime for which she must be punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur’s daughter would never be his, he poisoned her that she might not belong to another.”
Any attempt to convince Jean of the folly of his accusation would have been vain at that moment. No proofs would have convinced him. He would have closed his eyes to all evidence.
“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,” thought the abbe; then, turning to Jean, he said:
“We cannot allow the body of the poor girl to remain here upon the floor. Assist me, and we will place it upon the bed.”
Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was apparent.
“Very well!” he said, at last, after a severe struggle.
No one had ever slept upon this bed which poor Chanlouineau had destined for Marie-Anne.