“Yes, sad indeed,” said Clement. And in spite of himself he seemed for a moment suffocated by an emotion too violent to be surmounted.
Fleurange looked at him. There was something besides the shock and grief caused by this sudden death. “Clement, what else has happened? Tell me everything. Tell me at once, I implore you!”
“Yes, Gabrielle,” he said, making an effort to command his voice, usually so firm and mild. “Yes, I am going to tell you everything. I came on purpose to spare my poor father and mother this additional pain. Listen, or, rather, read this yourself!”
Fleurange with a trembling hand took the letter he offered her, and read as follows:
“Father: I have abused your confidence. Your name, which you allowed me to make use of, has hitherto enabled me to conceal my losses. With the hope of repairing them, I rashly aimed at an immense prize which chance seemed to offer me. Had I obtained it, all would have been saved. I have been unsuccessful. Ruin has fallen not only on us, but on all whose property is in our hands. Farewell, father, you will never see me again. Do not be afraid of my taking my own life. That would only be another base act. But there are lands where they who seek death can find it. I hope to have that good luck. May I speedily expiate what I can never repair!
“Felix.”
Fleurange silently clasped her hands. Pity mingled with the repugnance, now so well justified, with which Felix had always inspired her, and she could not utter a word. Clement continued:
“This letter, imprudently given to my unhappy uncle this morning, immediately brought on one of the attacks to which he was liable, and which (perhaps happily for him) has proved fatal. He had not time to realize the blow that had befallen him.”
Fleurange herself hardly comprehended its extent. “But where is Felix, then?” she said at length.
“He has been gone a fortnight.”