"Poor Roch!" murmured the lieutenant, dashing away a tear. "He sacrificed his life for our sake, I see that. But I have not finished his letter; let me read on to the end: 'I mean to shoot myself in such a way that I shall be absolutely disfigured. There are no marks on my linen, no tailor's name on my clothes: I have even pulled the lining out of my hat so that my identity will always remain a mystery for the officials. My notary will hand you a power of attorney enabling you to attend to my affairs, for I have told him and the doorkeeper at my house that I am going to America. Nobody will pay any attention to my disappearance. Believe me when I say that your mother is quite guiltless in all this. Puymirol also; Rochas, too, knew nothing about it, though Dargental had sent him anonymous letters, and he was having me watched, believing me to be your mother's lover. Dargental would have brought disgrace upon you all. He would not have stopped at anything: he was so very furious that he could not obtain a large sum of money from your mother. There was but one course to follow—to put him out of the way—and I adopted it. And now, God bless you! Think of me sometimes. Give Caumont Gabrielle's portrait which hangs in my sitting-room. Good-bye, my dear Albert, my last thought will be for you all.'"
A spell of silence followed this perusal. There were tears in the young men's eyes. However, finally, Caumont remarked: "It seems as though Roch's suicide will really end the investigation. His body will not be identified, and the affair will be forgotten, providing we prevent any imprudent act calculated to revive it."
"An imprudent act! We shall certainly not commit any."
"No; but we can't foresee what the writers of those letters will do. Even now, they may be shuddering at the thought of being compromised; and fear is a bad adviser."
"You are right, and I think it would be as well to return the letters to them immediately—the sooner the better. Let us take a cab, and call on them."
Caumont assented; and five minutes later, he and Albert were rolling through the streets of Paris, bound first for Blanche's rooms in the Avenue de Messine, and thence for the Lescombat mansion near the Parc Monceau.
But little more now remains to be told; Blanche received her letter, and the countess received hers; and both missives were duly burnt without delay. Three weeks after Roch Plancoët's death, George and Gabrielle were married at the church of St. Sulpice. The bride was, perhaps, a trifle sad as her brother and her happy spouse had been obliged to inform her of Roch's suicide, and even amid her bliss, she could not entirely forget the worthy old friend, who had sacrificed himself for her and hers. M. Robergeot had failed to penetrate the identity of Dargental's murderer, so thorough had been the precautions which Roch had taken; and to the authorities, if not to our readers, the crime of the Boulevard Haussmann still remains a puzzling mystery.
Madame Verdon is now married. She was united at Florence to M. Rochas, who rules her with an iron hand. Puymirol, having been duly released, has converted his Aunt Bessèges's property into cash and left for New York, where he hopes to find a rich wife, but the Americans are shrewd, and his sanguine expectations may not be realised. Poor Charles Balmer is furious. A celebrated physician has just informed him that he has thirty more years to live, and he has only money enough left to last him eighteen months. Albert is fast becoming an able officer, and is daily expecting promotion; while as for George and Gabrielle they are really happy, and still remember Roch Plancoët, who died to insure them a peaceful, unclouded life.