I will have a potion
prepared--"
"Oh, my God!" cried the poor lady, wringing her hands, in the fear
of a new misfortune, as bitter as the first; which, however,
restored her to her presence of mind. She called the servants, who
assisted the mayor to regain his chamber. Mme. Courtois also
retired, followed by the doctor. Three persons only remained in
the drawing-room--Plantat, Lecoq, and Robelot, who still stood
near the door.
"Poor Laurence!" murmured Plantat. "Poor girl!"
"It seems to me that her father is most to be pitied," remarked M.
Lecoq. "Such a blow, at his age, may be more than he can bear.
Even should he recover, his life is broken."
"I had a sort of presentiment," said the other, "that this misfortune
would come. I had guessed Laurence's secret, but I guessed it too
late."
"And you did not try--"
"What? In a delicate case like this, when the honor of a family
depends on a word, one must be circumspect. What could I do? Put
Courtois on his guard? Clearly not. He would have refused to
believe me. He is one of those men who will listen to nothing, and
whom the brutal fact alone can undeceive.
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