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Updated: May 5, 2025
"To Beaucaire, to ask Lafourcade the name of Valentine's husband." "You are still thinking of her?" "She is never absent from my thoughts." "You have not given up your idea of going to see her?" "Of course not." "Alas, Gaston! you forget that she whom you once loved is now the wife of another, and possibly the mother of a large family. How do you know that she will consent to see you?
"From that time," continued M. Verduret, "the skein began to disentangle; I held the principal thread. I now set about finding out what had become of Gaston. Lafourcade, who is a friend of your father, informed me that he had bought a foundery, and settled in Oloron, where he soon after suddenly died. Thirty-six hours later I was at Oloron." "You are certainly indefatigable!" said Prosper.
He quickly slipped it into his pocket; and, although he was on the point of mounting his horse to ride with Gaston, he said that he must run up to his room to get something he had forgotten; this was to gratify his impatient desire to read the letter. He tore it open, and, seeing "Lafourcade" signed at the bottom of three closely written pages, hastily devoured the contents.
He wrote again in the most pressing terms, and sent the letter by a courier who was to wait for the answer. This letter was never received by Lafourcade. At midnight, Gaston's sufferings returned with renewed violence, and for the first time Dr. C was uneasy. A fatal termination seemed inevitable. Gaston's pain left him in a measure, but he was growing weaker every moment.
But though the danger was warded off for the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment. Gaston would wait a week for an answer, then he would write again; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express surprise that his first letter had not been received; all of this correspondence would occupy about twelve days.
The heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty. Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur, or journalist of Paris.
"I did write as soon as I had an opportunity; and Lafourcade wrote back, saying that my father was dead, and that you had left the country." "I left Clameran because I believed you to be dead." After a long silence, Gaston arose, and walked up and down the room as if to shake off a feeling of sadness; then he said, cheerfully: "Well, it is of no use to mourn over the past.
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