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.”

The detective sorrowfully shook his head.

“Unhappily I have told you the truth.  Monsieur de Tremorel murdered his wife on Wednesday night.  I am a detective and I have a warrant to arrest him.”

He thought this terrible charge would overwhelm Laurence; he was mistaken.  She was thunderstruck, but she stood firm.  The crime horrified her, but it did not seem to her entirely improbable, knowing as she did the hatred with which Hector was inspired by Bertha.

“Well, perhaps he did,” cried she, sublime in her energy and despair; “I am his accomplice, then—­arrest me.”

This cry, which seemed to proceed from the most senseless passion, amazed the old justice, but did not surprise M. Lecoq.

“No, Madame,” he resumed, “you are not this man’s accomplice.  Besides, the murder of his wife is the least of his crimes.  Do you know why he did not marry you?  Because in concert with Bertha, he poisoned Monsieur Sauvresy, who saved his life and was his best friend.  We have the proof of it.”

This was more than poor Laurence could bear; she staggered and fell upon a sofa.  But she did not doubt the truth of what M. Lecoq said.  This terrible revelation tore away the veil which, till then, had hidden the past from her.  The poisoning of Sauvresy explained all Hector’s conduct, his position, his fears, his promises, his lies, his hate, his recklessness, his marriage, his flight.  Still she tried not to defend him, but to share the odium of his crimes.

“I knew it,” she stammered, in a voice broken by sobs, “I knew it all.”

The old justice was in despair.

“How you love him, poor child!” murmured he.

This mournful exclamation restored to Laurence all her energy; she made an effort and rose, her eyes glittering with indignation: 

“I love him!” cried she.  “I!  Ah, I can explain my conduct to you, my old friend, for you are worthy of hearing it.  Yes, I did love him, it is true—­loved him to the forgetfulness of duty, to self-abandonment.  But one day he showed himself to me as he was; I judged him, and my love did not survive my contempt.  I was ignorant of Sauvresy’s horrible death.  Hector confessed to me that his life and honor were in Bertha’s hands—­and that she loved him.  I left him free to abandon me, to marry, thus sacrificing more than my life to what I thought was his happiness; yet I was not deceived.  When I fled with him I once more sacrificed myself, when I saw that it was impossible to conceal my shame.  I wanted to die.  I lived, and wrote an infamous letter to my mother, and yielded to Hector’s prayers, because he pleaded with me in the name of my—­of our child!”