Laurence thought it was Hector returned, and she hastily rose, passing her handkerchief across her face to try to conceal her tears.
A man whom she did not know stood upon the threshold, respectfully bowing. She was afraid, for Tremorel had said to her many times within the past two days, "We are pursued; let us hide well;" and though it seemed to her that she had nothing to fear, she trembled without knowing why.
"Who are you?" she asked, haughtily, "and who has admitted you here?
What do you want?"
M. Lecoq left nothing to chance or inspiration; he foresaw everything, and regulated affairs in real life as he would the scenes in a theatre. He expected this very natural indignation and these questions, and was prepared for them. The only reply he made was to step one side, thus revealing M. Plantat behind him.
Laurence was so much overcome on recognizing her old friend, that, in spite of her resolution, she came near falling.
"You!" she stammered; "you!"
The old justice was, if possible, more agitated than Laurence. Was that really his Laurence there before him? Grief had done its work so well that she seemed old.
"Why did you seek for me?" she resumed. "Why add another grief to my life? Ah, I told Hector that the letter he dictated to me would not be believed. There are misfortunes for which death is the only refuge."
M. Plantat was about to reply, but Lecoq was determined to take the lead in the interview.
"It is not you, Madame, that we seek," said he, "but Monsieur de
Tremorel."