"Ah, my friend," said he shuddering, "you do not know all! If she had died here, in the midst of us, comforted by our tender care, my despair would be great; but nothing compared with that which now tortures me. If you only knew—"
M. Plantat rose, as if terrified by what he was about to hear.
"But who can tell," pursued the wretched man, "where or how she died?
Oh, my Laurence, was there no one to hear your last agony and save you?
What has become of you, so young and happy?"
He rose, shaking with anguish and cried:
"Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue." Then he fell back again, muttering the lugubrious word, "the Morgue."
The witnesses of this scene remained, mute, motionless, rigid, holding their breath. The stifled sobs and groans of Mme. Courtois and the little maid alone broke the silence.
"You know that I am your friend—your best friend," said M. Plantat, softly; "confide in me—tell me all."
"Well," commenced M. Courtois, "know"—but his tears choked his utterance, and he could not go on. Holding out a crumpled letter, wet with tears, he stammered:
"Here, read—it is her last letter."
M. Plantat approached the table, and, not without difficulty, read: