Martial’s brain reeled.
A child! His wife had a child!
He read on: “For services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ——. For expenses attending my own journey, ——. Divers gratuities, ——. Etc., etc.” The total amounted to six thousand francs. The bill was signed “Chelteux.”
With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the contents of the casket, and found a note written in a miserable hand, that said: “Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the affair at the Borderie.” Then several more bills from Chelteux; then a letter from Aunt Medea in which she spoke of prison and of remorse. And finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage-certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escorval, drawn up by the Cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.
The truth was as clear as daylight.
Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength to return the letters to the casket and restore it to its place.
Then he tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for support.
“It was she who murdered Marie-Anne,” he murmured.
He was confounded, terror-stricken by the perfidy and baseness of this woman who was his wife—by her criminal audacity, by her cool calculation and assurance, by her marvellous powers of dissimulation.
He swore he would discover all, either through the duchess or through the Widow Chupin; and he ordered Otto to procure a costume for him such as was generally worn by the habitues of the Poivriere. He did not know how soon he might have use for it.