Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
But the weeks went by, and the quest was fruitless. Maurice was deeply discouraged.
“My child died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe reassured him.
“I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “I know, by Marie-Anne’s absence, the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”
“And yet there is not a nook or corner for miles around which we have not explored.”
“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest, now, was only striving to gain time, knowing full well that it is the sovereign balm for all sorrows.
His confidence, which had been very great at first, had been sensibly diminished by the responses of an old woman, who passed for one of the greatest gossips in the community.
Adroitly interrogated, the worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there must be one in the neighborhood, since it was the third time she had been questioned on the subject.
Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in hiding it.
He set the old gossip to talking, and after a two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two persons besides Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child.
Why, with what aim, and who these persons could be the abbe was unable to ascertain.
“Ah! rascals have their uses after all,” he thought. “If we only had a man like Chupin to set upon the track!”
But the old poacher was dead, and his eldest son—the one who knew Blanche de Courtornieu’s secret—was in Paris.
Only the widow and the second son remained in Sairmeuse.
They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was burning in their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morning until night the mother and son toiled on, until the earth around their hut had been explored to the depth of six feet.
A word dropped by a peasant one day put an end to these researches.
“Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I did not suppose you were such a fool as to persist in hunting birds’ nests after the birds have flown. Your brother, who is in Paris, can undoubtedly tell you where the treasure was concealed.”
The younger Chupin uttered the fierce roar of a wild beast.
“Holy Virgin! you are right!” he exclaimed. “Wait until I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we will see.”
CHAPTER L
Martial de Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than Blanche.
In ten seconds, more ideas passed through her brain than had visited it for ten years.
She saw the gendarmes at the chateau; she saw her niece arrested, incarcerated in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Court of Assizes.
If this were all she had to fear! But suppose she, too, were compromised, suspected of complicity, dragged before the judge, and even accused of being the sole culprit!
Finding the suspense intolerable, she left her room; and, stealing on tiptoe to the great drawing-room, she applied her ear to the door of the little blue salon, in which Blanche and Martial were seated.
The conversation which she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless.
She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her brain.
When Martial left the room, Aunt Medea at once opened the communicating door and entered the blue salon, thus avowing that she had been a listener.
Twenty-four hours earlier she would not have dreamed of committing such an enormity.
“Well, Blanche, we were frightened at nothing,” she exclaimed.
Blanche did not reply.
She was deliberating, forcing herself to weigh the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity.
“Perhaps the hour of my revenge is almost here,” murmured Blanche, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be Marquise de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then—oh, then!”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically.
In her secret heart she had but little faith in this prediction, and whether it was realized or not mattered little to her.
“Still another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that—that what you did at the Borderie was unnecessary,” she said, in that low tone that accomplices always use in speaking of their crime.
Such had been the opinion of Blanche; but she now shook her head, and gloomily replied:
“You are wrong; that which took place at the Borderie has restored my husband to me. I understand it all, now. It is true that Marie-Anne was not Martial’s mistress, but Martial loved her. He loved her, and the rebuffs which he received only increased his passion. It was for her sake that he abandoned me; and never, while she lived, would he have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of the emotion which had been awakened by another. His tenderness was only the expression of his sorrow. Whatever happens, I shall have only her leavings—what she has disdained!” the young marquise added, bitterly; and her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot in ungovernable anger. “And shall I regret what I have done?” she exclaimed; “never! no, never!”
From that moment, she was herself again, brave and determined.
But horrible fears assailed her when the inquest began.
Officials came from Montaignac charged with investigating the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling all the mysteries of crime.
Aunt Medea was half crazed with terror; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great anxiety.
“You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.
“Ah! my terror is
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