The only reply he made
was to step one side, thus revealing M. Plantat behind him.
Laurence was so much overcome on recognizing her old friend, that,
in spite of her resolution, she came near falling.
"You!" she stammered; "you!"
The old justice was, if possible, more agitated than Laurence. Was
that really his Laurence there before him? Grief had done its work
so well that she seemed old.
"Why did you seek for me?" she resumed. "Why add another grief to
my life? Ah, I told Hector that the letter he dictated to me would
not be believed. There are misfortunes for which death is the only
refuge."
M. Plantat was about to reply, but Lecoq was determined to take the
lead in the interview.
"It is not you, Madame, that we seek," said he, "but Monsieur de
Tremorel."
"Hector! And why, if you please? Is he not free?"
M. Lecoq hesitated before shocking the poor girl, who had been but
too credulous in trusting to a scoundrel's oaths of fidelity. But
he thought that the cruel truth is less harrowing than the suspense
of intimations.
"Monsieur de Tremorel," he answered, "has committed a great crime."
"He! You lie, sir.
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