Detective and mystery stories; French fiction -- Translations into English
He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still
outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper
floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of
evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no
light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his
hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front
of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly
that he almost fell backward--he paused horror-stricken at the sight
before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were
wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black
and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But
this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the
poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as
rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose
to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when
his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He
rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on
the palm of his hand--it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.
But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done
was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him
of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very
difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest
hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M.
d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at
the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had
been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever
now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but
not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire
it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back
to your father’s house.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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