I didn't know what
was written on the paper or how bad it might be, and there was no one
I could trust enough to ask. And it seemed to me a cruel kindness to do
that sweet young creature, letting her know that her father had written
her mother down so shamefully; for that's what he did, I suppose. I
thought she would rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappy
that way. It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet.
Quiet I call it, but for me it was a weary quietness. It worried me
terribly, and it changed me altogether. But for others I held my tongue,
and no one, to this hour, knows what passed between the poor marquis and
me."
"But evidently there were suspicions," said Newman. "Where did Mr.
Valentin get his ideas?"
"It was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, and
he made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house,
as he did day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see.
And indeed the way the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fell on
my lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman from
Paris was much more accommodating, and he hushed up the other. But for
all he could do Mr. Valentin and Mademoiselle heard something; they knew
their father's death was somehow against nature.
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