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He is a delightful youth, cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is about to be an honour to our family." Our good Colonel's house had received a coat of paint, which, like Madame Latour's rouge in her latter days, only served to make her careworn face look more ghastly. The kitchens were gloomy. The stables were gloomy.
Darrow was confined to his bed from the 25th day of February to the 18th day of March, and that he visited him during that time at least once, and oftener twice, every day. "Again; M. Latour asserts that he never saw M. Godin till the day of his arrest, and M. Godin asserts that he never entered M. Latour's rooms until that day. I have a photograph and here a phonographic record.
Maitland and Godin alone seemed cool and collected. Throughout all Latour's testimony, M. Godin watched the witness with a burning concentration. It seemed as if the great detective meant to bore through Latour's gaze down to the most secret depths of his soul. Not for an instant did he take his eyes from Latour.
Eugene went a few steps farther; then, turning round, he said: "Yes- -grasp him well, hut be careful not to take him by the right arm, for I believe that it is wounded." As he spoke these merciful words, Eugene blushed, for he saw a derisive smile on Latour's face. "I was in error," thought the steward. "Such a soft heart ought to have been lodged in the body of a woman."
A cry, a little cry almost like the whine of a small animal suddenly hurt, escaped from Latour's lips. His strength seemed to go out of him, and he sank into a chair by the table, his face pale, his hands trembling. "Tell me," he said, his voice a whisper. "I cannot say how suspicion first arose, but some one at the barrier must have started it.
Then she turned to Bontemps. "Come," said she, "let us go to Latour's." "Cléo," said the distracted Madame de Brie, writing to a friend, "Cléo must always have been as mad as her aunt De Warens. Fishermen, it seems, are the only honest people, and she and her cargo of fishermen, with an old man named Bontemps, are now heaven knows where since I met them at Portofino.
"I feel like a prisoner." "Better that than falling into the hands of the mob." On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally, perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe, and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making inquiries in other directions.
That circumstance alone was sufficient to render that funeral famous, but it was remembered, too, as having shocked the proprieties in another and more serious manner. No one would be so narrow-minded as to object to the custom of the return procession falling into a series of horse-races of the wildest description, and ending up at Latour's in a general riot.
Shortly after Latour's appointment to this important post the Austrians besieged Mantua. It was welt known that the garrison was supplied with provisions and ammunition for a long resistance; yet, in the month of July it surrendered to the Austrians. The act of capitulation contained a curious article, viz.
"Quite early this morning he saw certain members of the Convention and explained matters. It was the same story as he told in the wine shop, and he was believed." "Do you believe him?" Sabatier asked. The smile upon Latour's face suggested that he had no great faith in any one, that it was a sign of weakness to trust any man fully, and folly to express an opinion on such a subject.
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