“No,” said he.  “I can yet fly and conceal myself; I will go alone, and you can rejoin me afterward.”

“I have already told you that it is too late.  The police have surrounded the house.  And—­you know—­it is the galleys, or—­the scaffold!”

“I can get away by the courtyard.”

“It is guarded; look.”

He ran to the window, saw M. Lecoq’s men, and returned half mad and hideous with terror.

“I can at least try,” said he, “by disguising myself—­”

“Fool!  A detective is in there, and it was he who left that warrant to arrest you on the table.”

He saw that he was lost beyond hope.

“Must I die, then?” he muttered.

“Yes, you must; but before you die write a confession of your crimes, for the innocent may be suspected—­”

He sat down mechanically, took the pen which Laurence held out to him, and wrote: 

“Being about to appear before God, I declare that I alone, and without accomplices, poisoned Sauvresy and murdered the Countess de Tremorel, my wife.”

When he had signed and dated this, Laurence opened a bureau drawer; Hector seized one of the brace of pistols which were lying in it, and she took the other.  But Tremorel, as before at the hotel, and then in the dying Sauvresy’s chamber, felt his heart fail him as he placed the pistol against his forehead.  He was livid, his teeth chattered, and he trembled so violently that he let the pistol drop.

“Laurence, my love,” he stammered, “what will—­become of you?”

“Me!  I have sworn that I will follow you always and everywhere.  Do you understand?”

“Ah, ’tis horrible!” said he.  “It was not I who poisoned Sauvresy—­ it was she—­there are proofs of it; perhaps, with a good advocate—­”

M. Lecoq did not lose a word or a gesture of this tragical scene.  Either purposely or by accident, he pushed the door-curtain, which made a slight noise.

Laurence thought the door was being opened, that the detective was returning, and that Hector would fall alive into their hands.

“Miserable coward!” she cried, pointing her pistol at him, “shoot, or else—­”

He hesitated; there was another rustle at the door; she fired.

Tremorel fell dead.

Laurence, with a rapid movement, took up the other pistol, and was turning it against herself, when M. Lecoq sprung upon her and tore the weapon from her grasp.

“Unhappy girl!” cried he, “what would you do?”

“Die.  Can I live now?”

“Yes, you can live,” responded M. Lecoq.  “And more, you ought to live.”

“I am a lost woman—­”

“No, you are a poor child lured away by a wretch.  You say you are very guilty; perhaps so; live to repent of it.  Great sorrows like yours have their missions in this world, one of devotion and charity.  Live, and the good you do will attach you once more to life.  You have yielded to the deceitful promises of a villain remember, when you are rich, that there are poor innocent girls forced to lead a life of miserable shame for a morsel of bread.  Go to these unhappy creatures, rescue them from debauchery, and their honor will be yours.”