From this moment the trial went on rapidly. The sentence was a foregone conclusion.

Robeccal was condemned to death. Fanfar, under the name of Jacques Fougere, was sentenced to the galleys for life.

But just as the sentenced was p.r.o.nounced, a singular event occurred.

Fanfar rose and opened his lips as if to speak, extended his arm, and fell full length on the floor. Cries of astonishment arose from the crowd.

"He has killed himself!" cried some.

"He has been poisoned!" said others.

Irene hastened to find Gudel. She had seen him near the door, but he had vanished. The crowd departed, saying to each other, sadly:

"He is dead!"

Robeccal was carried off more dead than alive. His sentence had frightened him. Perhaps he had not unbounded confidence in the honest people who had employed him.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

THE CRISIS.

"At last!" cried the Marquis, when the news of Fanfar's death reached him. He sent for Magdalena.

"Madame!" he said, "rejoice with me. Let us forget our mutual wrongs, for a new horizon stretches before us. All our anxieties are over. The man who stood between us and the possession of a fortune is dead!"

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Of this Fanfar, who, after making an attempt on the life of our king, was struck dead in the court-room during his trial."

"And this Fanfar was the son of Simon de Fongereues?"

"Yes, Madame, of my brother. And our father, who hated us, as you know, left the larger part of his fortune in the care of a fanatical body-servant of his, who held it as in trust for Simon's son whenever he should find him. He refused to relinquish this trust until he had proof of the death of the youth. Now he must be made to speak, for the only heir of the Fongereues fortune is myself, and I shall appeal to the law."

The Marquise talked with her husband for a long time. The next thing to do was to make Gudel speak frankly. This he had no hesitation in doing, and he again told the story he had told to the Marquis.

As to Pierre Labarre, of course he could make no further resistance. So long as the Marquis knew that Fanfar was living he had been obliged to be cautious; now no such reason existed.

The dreams of the Marquis were realized--a million for the Jesuits, and the gratification of his ambition and pride.

"Our son will be rich and happy!" said Magdalena, in an ecstasy of joy.

"But where is the boy? Write, Marquis, write to him at once. He must be suffering intolerably in this exile you have imposed upon him."

But Fongereues did not heed her words. He was thinking of other things.

"Cyprien has served me well!" he said. "How is it that I have not seen him for two days?"

"I was speaking of our son!" answered Magdalena, angrily. "Do you not think of your son? Do you not love your son?"

The Marquis took her hand. "It is time that we understood each other,"

he said, sadly. "For twenty years I have lived a melancholy life. I have yielded to your caprices, I have followed your counsel, and to what end?

Look at me--my hair is gray, my face is seamed and lined. I have never had one hour of repose. For whom have I carried this burthen? For myself? I despise mankind, I despise power, I despise you, and despise myself. I have but one real pa.s.sion in life, and that is my love for this wretched boy who bears my name. What have you, his mother, done for him?"

Magdalena turned away from her husband's melancholy eyes.

"Why I love him," continued the Marquis, "I know not, except that criminals love their children as wild beasts their young. You have questioned me, and I have answered you. Are you satisfied?"

There came at this moment a hurried knock at the door.

"Come in!" cried the Marquis, angrily.

A valet entered with a very pale face.

"Monsieur! my young master--"

"Ah! he has come!" cried the Marquise, rushing to the door.

But the lacquey extended his arms, as if to stop her.

"Madame!" he began.

"Well! what is it?"

"My young master is dead!" said the lacquey, with trembling lips.

Then there went up the cry of two stricken hearts. The two criminals looked at each other. They must have misunderstood the servant, who now pointed to the stairs, up which were coming men bearing a bier. What was underneath the cloth? Was it their son? Impossible!

A young man appeared. Magdalena rushed toward him, without a word. The youth bowed his head.

"Yes, he is dead. Monsieur de Talizac has been killed in a duel!"

Magdalena sank upon the floor, unconscious. Fongereues laughed hysterically.

"Nonsense! My son has fought no duel," he said.

"Yes--with Arthur de Montferrand, whose sword pierced his heart!"

Fongereues tore the cloth from the bier. Yes, it was the Vicomte de Talizac. The wretched father tried to speak. Every muscle in his face quivered. The servants fell back, shocked by all this agony.

"Tell me all!" he said at last.

"There is little to tell, sir, beyond the bare fact. I have, however, a letter which the Vicomte gave me before he went on the ground."

Magdalena s.n.a.t.c.hed this letter and tore it open. It contained but one line:

"Faithless parents, I curse you with my dying breath!"