“What has happened to Mlle. Bobert, monsieur?” asked the gentleman.
“What has happened? Good heavens! Can it be possible.… The worst has happened: she is dead!”
“Ah!” exclaimed the gentleman. Was this man some near relation of hers, or did he mistake him for one?
“I tell you she is dead!” repeated M. Gombard, his surprise rising rapidly to indignation. “She died only a few minutes ago, and she is to be buried to-morrow!”
“Naturally; that is the law. A person who dies this morning must be buried to-morrow, unless,” the speaker continued, fancying he had here a clue to M. Gombard’s excitement—“unless good reason can be shown for obtaining a delay, in which case, as a resident, I may be of some use to you; you seem to be a stranger here.”
M. Gombard could not credit his senses. Was he dreaming, or was this man gone mad? He stared at
him for a moment in dumb amazement. At last he said:
“Perhaps I am under a mistake.… I may be taking you for a person who resembles you strongly. Who are you, monsieur?”
“I am an archæologist by profession; my name is De Valbranchart.” He drew out his pocket-book and handed a card to M. Gombard.
“Henri, Comte de Valbranchart,” repeated M. Gombard absently. He had heard the name before; but where? “The name is not unknown to me,” he added.