“And the unhappy man who committed the crime?”
“Is dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Joam Garral; and the word made him turn pale, in spite of himself, as if it had deprived him of all power of reinstatement.
“Dead,” repeated Torres; “but this man, whom I knew a long time after his crime, and without knowing that he was a convict, had written out at length, in his own hand, the story of this affair of the diamonds, even to the smallest details. Feeling his end approaching, he was seized with remorse. He knew where Joam Dacosta had taken refuge, and under what name the innocent man had again begun a new life. He knew that he was rich, in the bosom of a happy family, but he knew also that there was no happiness for him. And this happiness he desired to add to the reputation to which he was entitled. But death came—he intrusted to me, his companion, to do what he could no longer do. He gave me the proofs of Dacosta’s innocence for me to transmit them to him, and he died.”
“The man’s name?” exclaimed Joam Garral, in a tone he could not control.
“You will know it when I am one of your family.”
“And the writing?”
Joam Garral was ready to throw himself on Torres, to search him, to snatch from him the proofs of his innocence.
“The writing is in a safe place,” replied Torres, “and you will not have it until your daughter has become my wife. Now will you still refuse me?”
“Yes,” replied Joam, “but in return for that paper the half of my fortune is yours.”