For two hours he was as if paralyzed, unable to speak a word. The cruel Spanish woman sat by him, recounting the most brutal murder stories about Etienne, instead of comforting him.
But at last Geneviève suddenly got up from the armchair where she had been resting:
— I cannot believe such cheapness; I am sure that Mr.
Hontarrède is innocent, — said he.
— But I say we have proof!
— What kind of evidence?
— A whole bunch! Lorenzo's Last Words; the servant's testimony that he saw the criminal preparing the poison; the apothecary who supplied the poison. And in the evening, when the dead man is operated on, cocaine is found in his stomach — that's another proof.
- What?
— Cocaine, a poison that the criminal had allegedly taken for his toothache.
I have seen the letter myself. What doubt about that? You can see it yourself.
Geneviève still doubted.
— Even if I had seen this crime happen with my own eyes, I still wouldn't have believed it!
— Such stubbornness!
— It just makes sense. What would Mr. Hontarrède have done this crime for?
— A child! Don't you know he's going to marry Rose-Marie?
- That's not true. He does not love her, and never has.
Mrs. Manzinil straightened and held out her thin arms:
— Or so, you still believe it!
— Why wouldn't I believe? You think Mr. Hontarrède was Mrs.
Miralez's lover. What proof do you have of that?
— You make the end of my patience! You saw Rose-Marie come out of that beast's room with her hair in disarray, you saw your uncles attack the culprits!
— Everything has been a fraud! You and I, Lorenzo and Rose-Marie herself are mistaken. Mr. Hontarrède has explained to me all the terrible events and has demonstrated his innocence perfectly.
— So you believe that rascal's speech more than mine? And his letter to Rose-Marie? What do you say about them?
— He hasn't sent any love letters to Rose-Marie.
— I had the letter and I wanted to show it to you, but I was forced to give it to the examiner.
Geneviève turned pale.
— Was it a love letter?
— Full of love, passionate, crazy love! In it, he confesses that he is impatiently waiting for the moment when he can marry my sister-in-law. And the cocaine gave me a rush. — It would be remarkable if the president of the republic could pardon him!
— My God! Can I believe all that — exclaimed Geneviève. He shivered. And in his last defense he added:
— It cannot be possible that Monsieur Hontarrède intended to marry Rose-Marie's hen, he proposed to me just this morning here in the forest.
Mrs. Manzanil was startled.
— Soo-o! — he exclaimed in his frustration and annoyance.
— Yes, he wanted to marry me — said the young girl, her eyes shining. — It has been decided. We have almost set the wedding date. I can still hear his voice in my ears and feel his kiss on my hand! Now you understand why he has never been able to think about marriage with Rose-Marie.
The old Spanish woman leapt along the floor and stretched her arms up shouting:
— Dios mio! What are you saying!
— What do you wonder about that, — asked the young girl in her fright.
— That day that rascal held your hand?
- So yes; barely three hours ago.
— That whistling villain knows how to use his time! Since yesterday, Rose-Marie doesn't even have a snack. Her husband disinherited her.
- So what?
— Hontarrède abandoned him, the poor man, and sought another richer one, you.
- How?
— You little goose! Your fiance didn't let go of millions. He knows that your uncle's riches belong to you and me. But you don't understand that. But yes, that "fiancé" — if only the hangman wouldn't settle down now.
Now Geneviève let out a cry of distress when the matter was presented in this light.
— So it's true, after all! My God, what will become of me! — He pressed his heart with both hands, which seemed to be pounding.
* * * * *
Two days after this, Mrs. Manzanil read to Geneviève in a newspaper an account of the murder, of that love drama in which the former monk played the main part, and a few days later an even wider description, in which it was said that Geneviève also loved the monk.
Soon a letter arrived for Geneviève, in which the judge called her to appear in court as a witness.
— Me! — exclaimed Geneviève — I would say that... No, I'd rather run away.
And he immediately decided to leave Testa. The chambermaid was able to get the things ready for travel right away.
But when it was time to leave, nothing came of it. He had developed a severe fever. The doctor's medical certificate was sent to the court.
On October 2, nti Sartilly was so recovered that he can leave Test. When he heard that newspapers with the portrait of the poisoner monk were being sold in the streets, he immediately set off, arriving in Montségur on a cloudy autumn evening. He didn't cry anymore, because his tears had already dried. It was as if paralysis had taken over his whole being in the slightest degree. What is there to think about, what to do? His life was completely gone…
In Bontucq, Geneviève tried to shut herself in her rooms. But if he went out there even for a moment, everyone reminded him of the days gone by. He couldn't bear those memories, he had to leave here.
He remembered a remote nunnery in Spain between Elizondo and Vera, behind those bluish mountains that loomed over Bontucq. He remembered the ghostly nuns who worked in the fields and immediately covered their heads with a black cape when a man happened to appear in the distance. For the one who loved the monk, this was exactly the end! His time as a novice was for him to work in memory of Martin's former master, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life praying for the forgiveness of Lazare's sins. — Peyroux remained Bontucq's nurse and a few servants were dismissed, to whom Geneviève distributed her ornaments and a few of her valuables. October 10 days ago, he cut off his thick, blond hair and buried it himself at the foot of the linden tree, which grew on the grave of the deceased Martin, and left for Spain in a third-class carriage.
It was raining heavily when he looked out of the train window at familiar, memorable regions. But when Saint-Jean-de-Luz was reached, the sun shone, casting its pitiful rays on the waves of the ocean. Gradually, the French frontier fled behind the mountains.
Then Geneviève could still cry.
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