M. Darzac replied.
“Ask my wife. I want to forget all about it. I know nothing more about this horrible thing. When the remembrance of that dreadful journey shall return to me, I shall try to make myself believe that it was a nightmare. And I will drive it away. Never speak to me of it again. No one save Mme. Darzac knows where the body is. She may tell you, if she likes.”
“I have forgotten, too!” said Mathilde. “I was obliged to do so.”
“Nevertheless,” insisted Rouletabille, shaking his head, “you must tell me. You said that he was in his agony. Are you sure that he is dead now?”
“I am perfectly sure,” replied M. Darzac, simply.
“Oh, it is finished. Is it not entirely ended?” pleaded Mathilde. She arose and walked to the window. “See! there is the sun! This horrible night is dead—dead, forever! Everything is over!”
Poor Lady in Black! The yearnings of her soul revealed themselves in her words. “It is finished!” And the fact, as she believed it, made her forget all the horror of the scene which had passed in this room. Larsan no more! Larsan buried! Buried in the potato sack!
And we all started up in affright, when the Lady in Black began to laugh—the frantic laugh of a madwoman! She ceased as suddenly as she had begun and a horrible stillness followed. We dared look neither at her nor at each other! She was the first to speak.
“It is all over!” she said. “Forgive me: I won’t laugh again.”
And then Rouletabille said, speaking in a very low tone: