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Updated: September 18, 2025
"My friend," resumed Marambot, "not a year, not a single year, you understand, passes without a fresh history of Gisors being published here; we now have twenty-three." "And the glories of Gisors?" I asked. "Oh, I will not mention them all, only the principal ones.
The idea of seeing this terrible spectacle again so upset him that he kept his eyes closed with all his strength, as though they might open in spite of himself. What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped. But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up again and he would die from loss of blood.
Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor." M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort, careless in business.
He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the money. Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy that day as he had seemed joyful the day before. Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept. He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened.
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