Marie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands pressed upon her heart.
"Courage, my friend," she said breathlessly. "Yes, M. le Commissaire, we will hear."
It had struck her that he was smiling.
He began to read in his sing-song voice, "Fort, convicted of forgery, died last month in the Grande Roquette. Before his death he confessed his denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false."
Jean Didier's wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her husband's neck, speechless.
So this was the end of that affair. As for No. 7639, which had brought Leblanc in pursuit of Périne, it did not turn out so romantically as might have been desired, having nothing to do with the great robbery of the Rue Vivienne, which remains a mystery—to most people—to this day. But oddly enough, it set the police on the track of a smaller crime; a certain reward was handed over to the Didiers for the use of the poor girl, and no one will deny that it was her unconscious instrumentality which brought their change of fortune. Jean is almost always kind to her, but Marie treats her with a sort of reverence.
You may see them sometimes, of a summer evening, walking along the quays. The great river sweeps slowly down, the busy lights which flit about the houses or point the span of the bridges with golden dots, fling long reflections on its surface. Overhead, more peaceful lights are shining. All about us is the rush of tumult and change, men drifting here and there, struggling, weeping, jesting, passing away; but over all God watches, and His world goes on.
FRANCES MARY PEARD