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Updated: June 29, 2025
Montferrand raised her hands to his lips once more, and took his leave. Instantly Fongereues turned to his wife. "Is this true?" he asked. She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and left the room in silence. She went to her son's chamber. "It is all settled," she said to him.
It might be after all that he was not guilty of Fanfar's death. A servant entered. The Marquis asked for Cyprien; he had not been seen in the hôtel for two days, the lacquey replied. The Marquis turned to his father's servant. "I have grave duties to perform," he said, quietly, "first I must see my son. You must go with me." Labarre shook his head. "In the name of my brother!" said Fongereues.
"Gentlemen," he said, "behold the body of the unhappy girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac has murdered!" There was a moment of silence, then the women screamed and fled, while the men turned pale and looked at each other. Talizac caught at the mantel for support. Fongereues had heard Arthur utter the name of Fanfar, and shuddered at the ill-omen.
Day was breaking. The Marquis de Fongereues was standing in his dressing-room, listening with frowning brow to Cyprien, who was narrating the events of the night. "I assure you, sir," said the valet, obsequiously, "that every precaution was taken, and yet we failed." "There is one comfort that Fanfar is every day compromising himself more deeply with these conspirators."
"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre. "I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the Marquis de Fongereues?" Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.
On one side sits an old man, on the other a lady wrapped in a cloak that covers her entirely. The Marquis de Fongereues is only sixty, but his white hair, his wrinkles, and the sad senility of his countenance gave him the appearance of an octogenarian. He sits motionless, his hands crossed on his knees. The lady opposite, whose head rests on the high oak back of her chair, is not yet forty.
He had arms concealed about his person, and did not hesitate to confess that he came with the intention of killing the king." A cry of horror ran around the room. Fongereues was overjoyed. Cyprien had kept his word. "And this man," continued the Magistrate, "when summoned to name his accomplices, said that he obeyed the instructions of a secret society, of which this Fanfar is the chief."
It was Irène de Salves. "What does this senseless comedy mean?" asked the Marquis de Fongereues, angrily. "It is no comedy, it is a horrible tragedy," answered Fanfar, coldly. "Ask what explanations you please from your son; he must answer you. See how he trembles; ask him if what I have said is not true?" Talizac made a violent effort, and turning to his father, said, "This man lies!"
A voice within called out, "Who is there?" The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well. "The Marquis de Fongereues." Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of Simon's retreat.
To carry out this plan successfully would require great dexterity and astuteness, as well as profound faith in the justice of the cause you defend. The reward would be the dazzling recompense I have named. Monsieur de Fongereues, are you can you be this man?" Fongereues started to his feet. "Yes I can!" he cried. "We will assist you," said the Jesuit.
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