He
was no longer the happy man of the world, with smiling face, firm
look, the pride of which betrayed plainly his self-importance and
prosperity. In a few hours he had grown twenty years older. He
was broken, overwhelmed; his thoughts wandered in a sea of
bitterness. He could only repeat, vacantly, again and again:
"Wretched! most wretched!"
M. Plantat was the right sort of a friend for such a time. He led
M. Courtois back to the sofa and sat down beside him, and taking
his hand in his own, forced him to calm his grief. He recalled to
him that his wife, the companion of his life, remained to him, to
mourn the dear departed with him. Had he not another daughter to
cherish? But the poor man was in no state to listen to all this.
"Ah, my friend," said he shuddering, "you do not know all! If she
had died here, in the midst of us, comforted by our tender care,
my despair would be great; but nothing compared with that which
now tortures me. If you only knew--"
M. Plantat rose, as if terrified by what he was about to hear.
"But who can tell," pursued the wretched man, "where or how she
died? Oh, my Laurence, was there no one to hear your last agony
and save you? What has become of you, so young and happy?"
He rose, shaking with anguish and cried:
"Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue.
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