And yet in his secret soul he dreaded a discovery that
might turn out as he feared. But he pushed the black thoughts
aside; he would wait and watch for what he feared to find.
The fact of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir, and her murder at
the very moment when the search was about to be made for her, placed
Bigot in the cruelest dilemma. Whatever his suspicions might be, he
dared not, by word or sign, avow any knowledge of Caroline's
presence, still less of her mysterious murder, in his Chateau. Her
grave had been dug; she had been secretly buried out of human sight,
and he was under bonds as for his very life never to let the
dreadful mystery be discovered.
So Bigot lay on his couch, for once a weak and frightened man,
registering vain vows of vengeance against persons unknown, vows
which he knew at the moment were empty as bubbles, because he dared
not move hand or foot in the matter to carry them out, or make open
accusation against any one of the foul crime. What thoughts came to
Bigot's subtle mind were best known to himself, but something was
suggested by the mocking devil who was never far from him, and he
caught and held fast the wicked suggestion with a bitter laugh.
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