Chapter Thirty Three.La Petite Hirondelle.The fine old banqueting hall at Coombe, with its dark oak panelling and polished floor, transformed for the nonce into a ballroom presented an animated and pleasing spectacle.In the decorations, flags and palms had been used, and the ferns and evergreens ornamenting the walls contrasted well with the bright dresses of the dancers. The myriad lights in the magnificent chandeliers re fleeting in the mirrors multiplied and increased in effect; the air was heavy with the perfume of exotics; and the strains of tripping music from the band, now loud and fast, and again soft and low, resounded through the mansion. At the farther end of the hall a large square window stood open and gave exit to the garden, every bush and tree of which was illuminated by fairy lamps, notwithstanding that the night was frosty and moonlit.Valérie’s outward and visible signs of lamentation had been of brief duration. Within a year of her husband’s reported demise she threw off the trammels of widowhood, cast aside her weeds, and at once set herself to lead the unconventional set into which she had entered during her former residence in London. With a Parisienne’s love of admiration, her ambition for several years had been to outvie the other women who comprised her circle; and now, with wealth at her command and an establishment as fine as any in the county, she was enabled to indulge every whim and entertain her guests in a lavish manner which caused them envy.For the most part her acquaintances were women who were shunned by the disciples of Mother Grundy; some cigarette-smoking Bohemians whose only offence against society’s unwritten laws was that they exhibited their un-conventionalities openly; others pure adventuresses almost as fair and fascinating as herself. During the year she lived in England immediately before meeting Hugh, she had come into contact with these people, and after her sudden acquisition of fortune she had lost no time in renewing their acquaintance.It is astonishing what a large number of friends a wealthy women can command, even though she be placed beyond the pale of society and has never bowed before her august Sovereign. If she be handsome and fashionable, she can easily conquer the prejudices of the hypercritical followers of Dame Straightlace. Thus, although the magnates of North Cornwall and their wives and daughters were somewhat shocked and scandalised by her brief period of mourning, and the apparent levity with which she regarded her bereavement, nevertheless many retained a visiting intimacy with the widow of the once popular young owner of Coombe.Assessing the value of her personal charms correctly, her attempt to shine as the leader of a smart set had not failed. Aware that should her connection with Pierre become known it would be to her detriment, she had arranged with him to keep apart from her as much as possible; therefore the direction of her affections was suspected only by one or two of her oldest friends. Her fêtes were characterised by their extravagance and profuse display, for she spared no effort to ensure the enjoyment of those who accepted her hospitality; nevertheless, on this particular night she had eclipsed themenuof pleasures previously provided.An entertainment so novel could scarcely fail to be a success. Possibly it might have stirred feelings of pain and indignation within the breasts of the pharasaical, but as none of that order were included in the company, a satisfactory issue of the terpsichorean novelty was assured.It was nothing less than a reproduction of that strange spectacle which was originated at Ootacamund by the Governor and his select circle, and which caused so much excitement and comment in Madras, the Demon’s Dance.The ball had opened with two extras and two valses, after which came the feature of the evening.As the first discordant crash of music was heard, eight men rushed into the room. The attire of these imitators of his Satanic majesty was in itself remarkable. Long black-forked tails, tufts of hair on either side of the head, gave the idea of pointed ears; black coats, with a kind of bat’s wing under the arm and joined at the side; black bands of silk across the shirt front covering all gleams of white, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and pumps. Each in his rush along the room seized a reluctant angel, and dragged her to a place in the set. Their fair partners were most becomingly attired in soft flowing robes of white, with silver girdles, stars in their hair, flowing wing sleeves, and a big spray of lilies in their hands.No one but the eight from above and the subterranean eight took part in this dance, the rest being content to watch the curious sight. They danced with wonderful fiendish grace and agility, dragging their partners, whirling them round and pirouetting around them. Some angels appeared to dance easily while others, feigning reluctance, unwillingly went through the set. Valérie, in the arms of a tall demoniacal partner, almost flew about, her feet scarcely touching the ground, and her face bearing an expression of intense satisfaction and enjoyment.The bright spirits, with their sable lords, having finished the Lancers, concluded with a wild rapid waltz.The radiant hostess, flushed by excitement, had been led to her seat, and was receiving the congratulations of her guests on the success of the entertainment, when Jacob crossed the room and deferentially accosted her.“Well, what’s the matter?” she inquired, scanning the servitor sharply.“A gentleman in the library wishes to speak to you, madame. He will not give his card,” said the old man.“I can’t be troubled now to see anyone,” she replied petulantly.“Excuse me, madame,” he exclaimed, bowing. “But I think he desires to see you on very urgent business.”“Do you know what it is? Haven’t I told you often to always ask strangers what they want to see me about?”“I have asked him, madame, but he refused to tell me,” said Jacob, undisturbed by her impatience. “He said he wished to see you at once and alone.”“Alone,” she repeated, in surprise. “I wonder who it can be?”Then reflecting that any business at that hour must be of importance, she directed the servant to take her to where the stranger was in waiting.The library, a small, quaint old room, was situated in a wing of the building, at some distance from where the ball was in progress, and was virtually shut off from the rest of the house by baize doors placed halfway down the corridor.Jacob led the way, and, ceremoniously throwing open the door of the apartment, announced the advent of his mistress. The two shaded candles which stood upon the writing-table threw such a dim light over the sombre room that when she entered she did not for the moment recognise her visitor.The door had closed.He rose slowly from a chair near the fire, and walked towards her.“Dieu! Jack! Why, what means this?” she cried in amazement, when she recognised him.“You have company to-night,” observed the artist, without offering to shake hands. “I thought it probable that, under the circumstances, you would not grant an interview to an old friend.”“How absurd! Why, you must know you are always a welcome guest here,” and she beamed upon him one of her sweetest smiles.As she stood before him in the subdued light he gazed upon her in hesitation. Her costume was perfect, enhanced as it was by a sparkling diamond star in her hair and a necklet of exquisite brilliants. Her dress was of white silk, with very high sleeves, mounted in a sort of ball at the shoulder, hanging draperies from the arms representing wings, which expanded as she moved, and silver bands around a very high waist and under and across each arm.“The welcome you accord me is somewhat premature,” he observed meaningly. “No doubt you have a morbid satisfaction in seeing the man who is under your thrall—the miserable, deluded fool who stained his hands with a terrible crime for your sake, yet you—”“Why refer to that horrid affair?”, she asked, shuddering slightly. “Let’s forget it.”“No doubt you wish that dark page in your history to be closed,” he said ominously; “but, strangely enough, it is upon that very subject I have sought this interview.”“What do you want, pray?” she asked quickly.“Merely to introduce two persons to you—old friends.”“Old friends!” she echoed. “Who are they?”For answer, Egerton crossed the apartment and opened the door communicating with an ante-chamber. As he did so two persons advanced into the library.“Gabrielle! Hugh!” she gasped, a look of sudden terror overspreading her countenance.The tableau was well arranged and striking.Valérie’s glance shifted in alarm from one to the other, while her three visitors looked upon her in silence, with expressions of calm, confident determination.Hugh Trethowen’s countenance was careworn and pale; his whole appearance was that of a man weighed down by profound grief. The sufferings and privations had aged him considerably, yet there were in his face traces of some new feeling. His mouth, as a rule so serious, actually smiled; his look had more animation than it was wont to have, and altogether he had somewhat about him which was at once sad, malevolent, and self-satisfied.“I—I did not expect this pleasure,” the adventuress stammered, with bitter sarcasm, without asking them to be seated.The icy reception did not astonish them. They were fully prepared to meet the passionate wrath which they knew would be stirred within her.“We are unwelcome, no doubt,” said Gabrielle Debriège, with a cynical smile. “Nevertheless, it is a long time, madame, since you and I met.”“And what have I to do with you, pray?” cried Hugh’s wife, drawing herself up to her full height, and standing erect before them. “It is gross impudence for a woman of such reputation as yourself to claim my acquaintance. I do not forget what you were in Paris.”“Oh, indeed!” replied mademoiselle. “Before you asperse my character, think of your own.”“Who dares to defame me?” she asked indignantly.“I do,” declared mademoiselle.This bold reply caused the colour to flee from her cheeks, for the object of their visit began to dawn upon her.“I have come here, madame,” continued Gabrielle, “to bring your lost husband before you, so that he may hear the true story of your perfidy; I have—”“By Heaven! I’ll strangle you!” Valérie hissed, stepping forward threateningly, with clenched hands and flashing eyes.The two women were, however, separated by the writing-table.“First, listen to what I have to say,” the other replied coolly. “I alone know the truth, and it is useless to protest your innocence or deny your guilt—”“The truth of what?”“Victor has confessed,” said Gabrielle, without answering the question.“Confessed!” she repeated, betraying increased alarm.“By your treachery he was sent to penal servitude, but your plan proved rather too ingenious, for, strangely enough, he denounced you to a fellow-convict, who chanced to be your husband!”Valérie glanced sharply at Hugh, with unwavering gaze.“Yes,” he said, in a tone of disgust, speaking for the first time. “Your lover told me the horrible story, how—like myself—he had been tricked and wronged by you. I can scarcely believe that I ever loved a woman so vile and despicable, so depraved by sin as yourself.”“Vile and despicable!” she echoed, in anger. “What have I done that you, too, should turn against me?”“If you forget,” interposed Gabrielle, “I’ll refresh your memory.”“I desire to hear none of the vilifying denunciations. Let me get back to my guests.”“No,” said Egerton, turning the key in the door, and placing it in his pocket. “You don’t leave here yet. We have not finished.”She turned upon him like an infuriated animal brought to bay.“You,” she cried, scanning him from head to toe in exasperation. “Do you consider it wise for you—of all men—to interfere with my liberty? Remember the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann!”The speech had its desired effect. The artist shrank from her.“At the same time,” exclaimed Gabrielle, addressing her, “remember there are other sentences in the Penal Code besides imprisonment.”“I don’t understand you,” answered Valérie, giving her shoulders a shrug indicative of unconcern.“There is death for those who take the lives of their fellow-creatures.”The adventuress shuddered. Then resuming her air of indifference, said—“You are talking enigmas.”“You wish me to speak more plainly. Very well. Perhaps you have forgotten that night we met at my rooms in the Boulevard St. Michel, when, after your taunts and threats, I prophesied that a day would come when I would hold your life in my hands, and compel you to beg for mercy. That day has dawned.”“I’ll not stay here to be insulted in my own house,” cried Valérie fiercely.“We shall compel you,” remarked her husband abruptly.“This is some infamous plot against me,” she said, boldly facing him. “You are unworthy the name of husband if you do not protect me from this pair of criminals.”“We’ve had enough of heroic talk,” interrupted Gabrielle impatiently. “It will be as well to get to the business of our visit at once.”“If your business is only to insult me, I’ll ring for the servants and have you turned out.”“In that case we should embrace the opportunity of relating to your guests a story which would no doubt interest them,” answered Gabrielle calmly.“Bah! you are cowards,” she said, with face blanched by rage. “Three of you against one defenceless woman!”“Ah; do not malign us,” urged the other, in a tone of banter. “I know that the sight of your husband is somewhat embarrassing, especially when you and your adored Pierre very ingeniously proved his demise.” With a smile she added: “I should feel a trifle disconcerted myself under such distressing circumstances. Indeed, it is a most awkwardcontretemps, is it not?”“Sacré! keep your sympathies to yourself,” screamed Valérie, with a sudden outburst of terrible passion.Then, panting with excitement, she stood supporting herself by a chair, and facing her traducers. She saw plainly that the result of the conflict must be either complete annihilation, or a triumphant vindication of the character which Hugh had hitherto considered immaculate.Drawing a deep breath, she braced herself up for the ordeal, and stood ready to hurl back the accusation into the teeth of her enemies.
The fine old banqueting hall at Coombe, with its dark oak panelling and polished floor, transformed for the nonce into a ballroom presented an animated and pleasing spectacle.
In the decorations, flags and palms had been used, and the ferns and evergreens ornamenting the walls contrasted well with the bright dresses of the dancers. The myriad lights in the magnificent chandeliers re fleeting in the mirrors multiplied and increased in effect; the air was heavy with the perfume of exotics; and the strains of tripping music from the band, now loud and fast, and again soft and low, resounded through the mansion. At the farther end of the hall a large square window stood open and gave exit to the garden, every bush and tree of which was illuminated by fairy lamps, notwithstanding that the night was frosty and moonlit.
Valérie’s outward and visible signs of lamentation had been of brief duration. Within a year of her husband’s reported demise she threw off the trammels of widowhood, cast aside her weeds, and at once set herself to lead the unconventional set into which she had entered during her former residence in London. With a Parisienne’s love of admiration, her ambition for several years had been to outvie the other women who comprised her circle; and now, with wealth at her command and an establishment as fine as any in the county, she was enabled to indulge every whim and entertain her guests in a lavish manner which caused them envy.
For the most part her acquaintances were women who were shunned by the disciples of Mother Grundy; some cigarette-smoking Bohemians whose only offence against society’s unwritten laws was that they exhibited their un-conventionalities openly; others pure adventuresses almost as fair and fascinating as herself. During the year she lived in England immediately before meeting Hugh, she had come into contact with these people, and after her sudden acquisition of fortune she had lost no time in renewing their acquaintance.
It is astonishing what a large number of friends a wealthy women can command, even though she be placed beyond the pale of society and has never bowed before her august Sovereign. If she be handsome and fashionable, she can easily conquer the prejudices of the hypercritical followers of Dame Straightlace. Thus, although the magnates of North Cornwall and their wives and daughters were somewhat shocked and scandalised by her brief period of mourning, and the apparent levity with which she regarded her bereavement, nevertheless many retained a visiting intimacy with the widow of the once popular young owner of Coombe.
Assessing the value of her personal charms correctly, her attempt to shine as the leader of a smart set had not failed. Aware that should her connection with Pierre become known it would be to her detriment, she had arranged with him to keep apart from her as much as possible; therefore the direction of her affections was suspected only by one or two of her oldest friends. Her fêtes were characterised by their extravagance and profuse display, for she spared no effort to ensure the enjoyment of those who accepted her hospitality; nevertheless, on this particular night she had eclipsed themenuof pleasures previously provided.
An entertainment so novel could scarcely fail to be a success. Possibly it might have stirred feelings of pain and indignation within the breasts of the pharasaical, but as none of that order were included in the company, a satisfactory issue of the terpsichorean novelty was assured.
It was nothing less than a reproduction of that strange spectacle which was originated at Ootacamund by the Governor and his select circle, and which caused so much excitement and comment in Madras, the Demon’s Dance.
The ball had opened with two extras and two valses, after which came the feature of the evening.
As the first discordant crash of music was heard, eight men rushed into the room. The attire of these imitators of his Satanic majesty was in itself remarkable. Long black-forked tails, tufts of hair on either side of the head, gave the idea of pointed ears; black coats, with a kind of bat’s wing under the arm and joined at the side; black bands of silk across the shirt front covering all gleams of white, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and pumps. Each in his rush along the room seized a reluctant angel, and dragged her to a place in the set. Their fair partners were most becomingly attired in soft flowing robes of white, with silver girdles, stars in their hair, flowing wing sleeves, and a big spray of lilies in their hands.
No one but the eight from above and the subterranean eight took part in this dance, the rest being content to watch the curious sight. They danced with wonderful fiendish grace and agility, dragging their partners, whirling them round and pirouetting around them. Some angels appeared to dance easily while others, feigning reluctance, unwillingly went through the set. Valérie, in the arms of a tall demoniacal partner, almost flew about, her feet scarcely touching the ground, and her face bearing an expression of intense satisfaction and enjoyment.
The bright spirits, with their sable lords, having finished the Lancers, concluded with a wild rapid waltz.
The radiant hostess, flushed by excitement, had been led to her seat, and was receiving the congratulations of her guests on the success of the entertainment, when Jacob crossed the room and deferentially accosted her.
“Well, what’s the matter?” she inquired, scanning the servitor sharply.
“A gentleman in the library wishes to speak to you, madame. He will not give his card,” said the old man.
“I can’t be troubled now to see anyone,” she replied petulantly.
“Excuse me, madame,” he exclaimed, bowing. “But I think he desires to see you on very urgent business.”
“Do you know what it is? Haven’t I told you often to always ask strangers what they want to see me about?”
“I have asked him, madame, but he refused to tell me,” said Jacob, undisturbed by her impatience. “He said he wished to see you at once and alone.”
“Alone,” she repeated, in surprise. “I wonder who it can be?”
Then reflecting that any business at that hour must be of importance, she directed the servant to take her to where the stranger was in waiting.
The library, a small, quaint old room, was situated in a wing of the building, at some distance from where the ball was in progress, and was virtually shut off from the rest of the house by baize doors placed halfway down the corridor.
Jacob led the way, and, ceremoniously throwing open the door of the apartment, announced the advent of his mistress. The two shaded candles which stood upon the writing-table threw such a dim light over the sombre room that when she entered she did not for the moment recognise her visitor.
The door had closed.
He rose slowly from a chair near the fire, and walked towards her.
“Dieu! Jack! Why, what means this?” she cried in amazement, when she recognised him.
“You have company to-night,” observed the artist, without offering to shake hands. “I thought it probable that, under the circumstances, you would not grant an interview to an old friend.”
“How absurd! Why, you must know you are always a welcome guest here,” and she beamed upon him one of her sweetest smiles.
As she stood before him in the subdued light he gazed upon her in hesitation. Her costume was perfect, enhanced as it was by a sparkling diamond star in her hair and a necklet of exquisite brilliants. Her dress was of white silk, with very high sleeves, mounted in a sort of ball at the shoulder, hanging draperies from the arms representing wings, which expanded as she moved, and silver bands around a very high waist and under and across each arm.
“The welcome you accord me is somewhat premature,” he observed meaningly. “No doubt you have a morbid satisfaction in seeing the man who is under your thrall—the miserable, deluded fool who stained his hands with a terrible crime for your sake, yet you—”
“Why refer to that horrid affair?”, she asked, shuddering slightly. “Let’s forget it.”
“No doubt you wish that dark page in your history to be closed,” he said ominously; “but, strangely enough, it is upon that very subject I have sought this interview.”
“What do you want, pray?” she asked quickly.
“Merely to introduce two persons to you—old friends.”
“Old friends!” she echoed. “Who are they?”
For answer, Egerton crossed the apartment and opened the door communicating with an ante-chamber. As he did so two persons advanced into the library.
“Gabrielle! Hugh!” she gasped, a look of sudden terror overspreading her countenance.
The tableau was well arranged and striking.
Valérie’s glance shifted in alarm from one to the other, while her three visitors looked upon her in silence, with expressions of calm, confident determination.
Hugh Trethowen’s countenance was careworn and pale; his whole appearance was that of a man weighed down by profound grief. The sufferings and privations had aged him considerably, yet there were in his face traces of some new feeling. His mouth, as a rule so serious, actually smiled; his look had more animation than it was wont to have, and altogether he had somewhat about him which was at once sad, malevolent, and self-satisfied.
“I—I did not expect this pleasure,” the adventuress stammered, with bitter sarcasm, without asking them to be seated.
The icy reception did not astonish them. They were fully prepared to meet the passionate wrath which they knew would be stirred within her.
“We are unwelcome, no doubt,” said Gabrielle Debriège, with a cynical smile. “Nevertheless, it is a long time, madame, since you and I met.”
“And what have I to do with you, pray?” cried Hugh’s wife, drawing herself up to her full height, and standing erect before them. “It is gross impudence for a woman of such reputation as yourself to claim my acquaintance. I do not forget what you were in Paris.”
“Oh, indeed!” replied mademoiselle. “Before you asperse my character, think of your own.”
“Who dares to defame me?” she asked indignantly.
“I do,” declared mademoiselle.
This bold reply caused the colour to flee from her cheeks, for the object of their visit began to dawn upon her.
“I have come here, madame,” continued Gabrielle, “to bring your lost husband before you, so that he may hear the true story of your perfidy; I have—”
“By Heaven! I’ll strangle you!” Valérie hissed, stepping forward threateningly, with clenched hands and flashing eyes.
The two women were, however, separated by the writing-table.
“First, listen to what I have to say,” the other replied coolly. “I alone know the truth, and it is useless to protest your innocence or deny your guilt—”
“The truth of what?”
“Victor has confessed,” said Gabrielle, without answering the question.
“Confessed!” she repeated, betraying increased alarm.
“By your treachery he was sent to penal servitude, but your plan proved rather too ingenious, for, strangely enough, he denounced you to a fellow-convict, who chanced to be your husband!”
Valérie glanced sharply at Hugh, with unwavering gaze.
“Yes,” he said, in a tone of disgust, speaking for the first time. “Your lover told me the horrible story, how—like myself—he had been tricked and wronged by you. I can scarcely believe that I ever loved a woman so vile and despicable, so depraved by sin as yourself.”
“Vile and despicable!” she echoed, in anger. “What have I done that you, too, should turn against me?”
“If you forget,” interposed Gabrielle, “I’ll refresh your memory.”
“I desire to hear none of the vilifying denunciations. Let me get back to my guests.”
“No,” said Egerton, turning the key in the door, and placing it in his pocket. “You don’t leave here yet. We have not finished.”
She turned upon him like an infuriated animal brought to bay.
“You,” she cried, scanning him from head to toe in exasperation. “Do you consider it wise for you—of all men—to interfere with my liberty? Remember the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann!”
The speech had its desired effect. The artist shrank from her.
“At the same time,” exclaimed Gabrielle, addressing her, “remember there are other sentences in the Penal Code besides imprisonment.”
“I don’t understand you,” answered Valérie, giving her shoulders a shrug indicative of unconcern.
“There is death for those who take the lives of their fellow-creatures.”
The adventuress shuddered. Then resuming her air of indifference, said—
“You are talking enigmas.”
“You wish me to speak more plainly. Very well. Perhaps you have forgotten that night we met at my rooms in the Boulevard St. Michel, when, after your taunts and threats, I prophesied that a day would come when I would hold your life in my hands, and compel you to beg for mercy. That day has dawned.”
“I’ll not stay here to be insulted in my own house,” cried Valérie fiercely.
“We shall compel you,” remarked her husband abruptly.
“This is some infamous plot against me,” she said, boldly facing him. “You are unworthy the name of husband if you do not protect me from this pair of criminals.”
“We’ve had enough of heroic talk,” interrupted Gabrielle impatiently. “It will be as well to get to the business of our visit at once.”
“If your business is only to insult me, I’ll ring for the servants and have you turned out.”
“In that case we should embrace the opportunity of relating to your guests a story which would no doubt interest them,” answered Gabrielle calmly.
“Bah! you are cowards,” she said, with face blanched by rage. “Three of you against one defenceless woman!”
“Ah; do not malign us,” urged the other, in a tone of banter. “I know that the sight of your husband is somewhat embarrassing, especially when you and your adored Pierre very ingeniously proved his demise.” With a smile she added: “I should feel a trifle disconcerted myself under such distressing circumstances. Indeed, it is a most awkwardcontretemps, is it not?”
“Sacré! keep your sympathies to yourself,” screamed Valérie, with a sudden outburst of terrible passion.
Then, panting with excitement, she stood supporting herself by a chair, and facing her traducers. She saw plainly that the result of the conflict must be either complete annihilation, or a triumphant vindication of the character which Hugh had hitherto considered immaculate.
Drawing a deep breath, she braced herself up for the ordeal, and stood ready to hurl back the accusation into the teeth of her enemies.
Chapter Thirty Four.Dregs of Life.“If you two men would understand how you both have been ensnared and betrayed, listen to the facts I will relate,” said Gabrielle, leaning on the table before her.“Lies,” observed Valérie, as if speaking to herself.“A few years ago in Paris,” continued Mademoiselle Debriège, turning to her companions, “there lived, as you know, three artists, named Holt, Glanville, and Egerton. At that time I, too, lived in the Quartier Latin and became acquainted with them by meeting them frequently at the Chat Noir, whither I sometimes went in company with the man who had promised me marriage. The latter, however, forsook me—bah! it was the usual story—a woman’s foolish trust in a man who cast her off like a frayed glove. You understand?”She paused, and the colour mounted to her cheeks.“Ruin came,” she went on; “my father, a small tradesman, turned me from his door, and I found myself wandering friendless, forsaken, and homeless in the great city. Eventually I obtained an engagement as afiguranteat the Opera, and while there I first met the woman before you, Valérie Duvauchel. Although a gay coquette, she confided in me the fact that she was living under the protection of Victor Bérard, a convicted thief. I was poor, earning scarcely enough to keep body and soul together, when she asked me to assist her and her lover in their various schemes of robbery. This temptation proved too great, for I was to receive a fair share of the plunder. The first occasion on which I participated in the crusade against riches was at a burglary at Auteuil. We were successful, and I received a thousand francs for my services. During the nine months I was connected with them I assisted at a number of robberies of jewellery and plate, sometimes as a decoy, at others pilfering myself.”“I never knew you allied yourself in that manner with them,” remarked the artist in surprise, “although I often thought the dresses you wore cost you more than you obtained at the Opera.”“In order to carry out our plans, I was compelled to dress well,” she replied. “But that has little to do with the events that followed. While assisting Bérard, I frequently spent days about theateliers, and Glanville, the student of the Quai Montabello, and I became enamoured of one another. He had more money at his command than the average denizen of the Ile de la Cité, therefore I was not averse to accompanying him to cafés, balls, and theatres, especially as I had given up my engagement of the Opera, and was dependent entirely upon the proceeds of Victor’s depredations. After a few months at this life I discovered, by mere accident, that my English lover was not so devoted as I believed, and—that he knew Valérie. The affection between this woman and Egerton was a matter of comment among the students living on the Quai, but no one suspected that she favoured Glanville, whom everybody believed idolised me.”“I didn’t encourage him. I couldn’t help your lover admiring me, could I?” protested Valérie scornfully.“My awakening was a cruel one,” Gabrielle continued, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I taxed him with faithlessness, but he denied it so earnestly that at length I became convinced of his firm affection for me alone. A few days later a calamity befell us. I had stored in my rooms a quantity of stolen property previous to disposing of it. One evening, while I was out, Glanville called, and, entering with his key, sat down to await me. Hardly a quarter of an hour elapsed before two detectives and half a dozen policemen entered the place, armed with a warrant. They searched and quickly found several valuable articles, descriptions of which had been circulated. Then they arrested and charged him with perpetrating the robberies.”“Were you arrested also?” asked Hugh, greatly interested in the narrative.“No; fortunately Victor got wind of the affair, and warned me not to return. I was present, however, at the trial. The police had unfortunately discovered that the property was the proceeds of several extensive burglaries, and the court sentenced him to ten years’ transportation. The first few months he spent in performing hard labour at Brest, and at the end of that period I received a letter from him. It was long and earnest, reminding me of how he was suffering for my sake, and declaring his passionate love. To this I replied, and, after the lapse of a few weeks I received another, urging me to marry him. He said that he was sailing for New Caledonia that day, therefore if I consented I should be compelled to follow him out there. To meet this contingency he gave me the address of a bank, where I was to call and obtain money for my journey; and, further, he stated that in the event of my consenting to become his wife, he had given orders that three thousand francs were to be paid annually to me until his liberation. Naturally, such a proposal caused me grave doubts, especially as I had discovered a few days previous to his arrest a fresh and most striking proof of his love for this vile woman who stands now before you.”“Did you marry him after all?” inquired the artist impatiently, for he had been in ignorance of all this.“Yes, Valérie and Victor, having suspicions that the police had scented them, fled from Paris: consequently I was without means. Although I was fond of Glanville, and admired his courage in shielding me, yet I did not love him so well as another man I had lately met. However, finding myself almost destitute, I drew the money from the bank, and sailed for ‘La Nouvelle’ where, after a few weeks’ residence, the Governor gave us permission to marry. The ceremony was duly performed, and I have here the lines which prove it,” she added, exhibiting a small strip of paper which she had taken from her pocket.“Your honey noon was scarcely pleasant, I should think,” observed Hugh sympathetically.“Its brevity did not allow either of us to become bored,” she said. “I parted from him at the chapel door, and I have not seen him since.”“Not seen him!” repeated Egerton. “Why, has he not yet obtained his freedom?”“Yes; he escaped before he had been there two years. However, we never met.”“But why did you marry him?” the artist asked. “A convict was hardly a desirable husband.”“Ah! you wonder. Well, there were several reasons,” she said. “Firstly, I was afraid lest he should expose me with regard to a certain incident which occurred at Passy, in which Bérard and I were implicated. We were on a midnight expedition, and a policeman who proved troublesome received an ugly dig with a knife; therefore I was confident that if this were divulged I should be arrested and sentenced as one of Victor’s accessories. Then, again, I had been told by an Englishman who knew him that Glanville had an ample income, and this was confirmed by his offer to provide me with money until his release. Besides, he, on the other hand, was anxious to marry me in order to secure my silence, because he knew I had discovered a secret of his which, if not preserved, might bring dire consequences. It may have been for the best that we parted so quickly, for as soon as the marriage ceremony was performed I regretted the rash step, inasmuch as the recollection of my discovery regarding his alliance with this woman came back to me in all its hideous reality.”“What alliance?” inquired Valérie, whose firm, set face was as colourless as the dress she wore.“It is well you should feign ignorance,” Gabrielle replied angrily. Then, turning to the two men, she said: “In order that you shall understand matters aright, I shall be compelled to describe the scene. It took place in a suite of rooms in the Boulevard Haussmann tenanted by an English dealer in gems named Nicholson.”“What do you know of him?” cried Valérie in a husky voice.“Have patience and you shall hear,” she answered with a sarcastic smile. Again addressing her companions, she continued her narrative, saying: “While this woman was living with Victor, she had enchanted Egerton and Glanville. Both, unaware of one another’s feelings, were ecstatic over her face and figure; both worshipped her, and both were prepared to do anything to secure her favour.”“That is true,” admitted the artist moodily. “I was a brainless fool. Yet I did not know until now that Glanville had also been smitten by her fatal beauty.”“He had, nevertheless, as you will see. This woman—who afterwards assumed the name of Dedieu—with her usual crafty far-sightedness saw that it was possible to turn the mad impetuosity of you and your fellow-student to her advantage, and did not fail to embrace the opportunity. The scheme she concocted was indeed a fiendish one, which she carried out unaided, and the secret would have been safe even now had I not been the witness of her crime.”“You—you saw me?” shrieked Valérie in dismay. “You lie! You saw nothing.”“Her crime! What was it? Tell us quickly,” urged Hugh.“The facts are almost incredible, but they are simply as follows: Nicholson was her lover, and the safe in his room contained a quantity of cut and uncut gems. She devised an ingenious plan by which she could get rid of her lover, obtain the stones, and throw the guilt upon the two men who were infatuated with her.”“Bah! don’t believe her!—she’s telling you a pretty romance!” declared Valérie, striving to appear unconcerned.But Gabrielle took no notice of her interruptions.“The way she set about it,” she went on, “was, to say the least, skilful and heartless. Showing favour to each, unknown to the other, she told them that Nicholson held her enthralled by means of a secret, and that she was unable to break from him in consequence. An insinuating proposal she made was likely to lead to but one result—a promise from each that they would take Nicholson’s life.”“Wretch?” hissed the unhappy woman, under her breath.“She arranged the details of the assassination with both, instructing each in the manner by which the Englishman was to be killed. Both were in ignorance of each other’s intention, for she gave them strict injunctions to preserve the secret as they valued their lives. These facts I afterwards learnt, but I must tell you now how I became aware of the plot. Glanville had gone to London for a week, and I also had been away in the country for a few days. It was about half-past nine at night when I arrived at the St. Lazare Station, and while passing down the Boulevard Haussmann it suddenly occurred to me that Nicholson, being a very intimate friend of Glanville’s, would most probably be aware whether he had returned from England. I scarcely know what prompted me, but I halted before the house and ascended the stairs. The concierge was absent, and the staircase was in darkness, he having omitted to light the gas.”“Of course, you knew Nicholson,” observed the artist. “I remember it was I who introduced you.”“Yes; I had frequently met him with Glanville, and had been to his rooms before. Without much difficulty I found the door. It was ajar, and I pushed it open noiselessly. As I did so I heard loud excited talking, and recognised one of the voices as that of Valérie. The discovery that she had called upon this man excited my curiosity, and I resolved to watch them. They were in a room upon the left of the passage, the door of which was almost closed. Passing with scarcely a sound, I entered the sitting-room, and glanced round for some place of concealment. There were several, but the one I decided upon was behind the heavy crimson curtains that were drawn across the window overlooking the boulevard. Scarcely had I retired into my hiding-place when I heard the Englishman walk to the outer door and close it. Then he returned to the room in a frenzy of passion, invoking terrible curses upon her. They spoke in English, which at that time I did not understand; yet it was evident she had done something to arouse his hatred, for a few moments later she screamed for mercy, and rushed headlong into the room where I was. He followed at her heels, and, clutching her by the throat, flung her backwards upon the sofa. His face was livid with passion, and for several minutes they struggled together. Then, almost before I was aware of her intention, I heard a loud report. A puff of smoke curled between them as he relaxed his hold and grasped convulsively at his breast. ‘Dieu! Valérie! You—you’ve shot—me!’ were the only words that he uttered, for he reeled and fell backwards, striking his head violently upon the corner of the table.”“Did she really murder him?” asked the artist breathlessly.“Yes; the revolver with which, as I afterwards found, she had shot him through the heart, was still smoking in her hand. Flinging it from her to the opposite end of the room, she bent over the body of her lover and extracted the keys from his pocket. Crossing to the mock bookcase, she pressed a button and opened it, revealing the ponderous iron doors of the safe. Without hesitation she quickly applied the keys, and the handles yielded. In a few moments she had cleared the two iron drawers of the white paper packets they contained. Satisfying herself that she had not overlooked anything of value, she quickly closed the safe and transferred the plunder to the pockets of her dress and jacket.”“Ciel! Shedoesknow!” escaped Valérie’s lips involuntarily, as she stood trembling and leaning heavily upon the chair, her distended eyes glaring at the trio before her with a terrible fire of hatred.“But what of Nicholson?” asked Hugh. “Was he dead?”“Quite. Death had been almost instantaneous,” Gabrielle replied, speaking in the same distinct, mechanical tones in which she had recounted the strange incidents. “When the murderess had concluded her search for the gems, she turned her attention to the body. First, she bent and satisfied herself that there was no movement of the heart, then, by dint of exerting every muscle, she managed to drag the body up and seat it in the chair at the writing-table. The limbs being not yet rigid, it was an easy task to place it in a natural position, with the arms leaning upon the table and head bending over, as if reading the papers, which she spread out upon the blotting-pad. After she had rearranged the room, she glanced at the watch she wore in a bangle upon her wrist. Lighting the reading-lamp and turning out the gas, she left the room with only a dim, subdued light. She had just completed this when she started at the click of a latchkey in the outer door, and concealed herself quickly behind a high screen which stood near the fireplace. Barely had she time to do this before Egerton entered, and, creeping up cautiously behind the dead man’s chair, struck him a terrible, murderous blow in the back with a long sharp knife he carried in his hand. The force he used caused the body to overbalance and roll, with the chair, upon the floor. With scarcely a second look at the result of his horrible work, he turned and stole out as noiselessly as he had entered. In a few minutes Valérie, having convinced herself of his departure, emerged from her hiding-place, and again reseated the corpse in its chair, at the same time removing the blood from the clothes with a cloth she obtained from a drawer. For a few minutes she was engaged in staunching the blood, and prevented it from flowing over his coat after she had withdrawn the knife from the wound. Subsequently she went into the adjoining apartment, and was absent about ten minutes. When she re-entered, Glanville accompanied her. He, too, was also armed with a knife, the blade of which gleamed in the ray of lamplight which fell upon it. The murderess crept stealthily behind the corpse and, bending over, placed her arms around its neck, as if caressing it, while at that moment, in obedience to a motion from her, the student rushed up and struck it a violent blow with the knife full in the chest. Valérie released her hold and again the body lolled upon the floor. The woman snatched up her hat, and, without casting a glance at the murdered man or uttering a word, both went out and closed the door after them. Five minutes later I followed, hardly daring to breathe until I had reached the boulevard and mingled with the people.”“Good God! Is it really true?” demanded Egerton excitedly.“True? Bah! Surely you are not such an imbecile as to believe the foul lies of that woman?” shouted Hugh’s wife. “She has no proof.”“I’ll convince you before I have finished,” answered Gabrielle. “The strangest phase of the affair yet remains to be narrated—”“Diable!” cried the trembling woman passionately. “Ah! you would crush me, would you not?” she said, with a hollow laugh. “You—you would hurry me off to pay the penalty without a moment’s pity. But I shall be out of your reach. You see well enough that you can’t succeed; bah! you are vanquished.”Gabrielle took no heed of this sudden outburst of fury. Drawing from her pocket a crumpled newspaper, she said—“This is a copy of theGaulois, containing a full report of the discovery of the body, and if you read it you will find the three distinct wounds described as I have explained.”“Then, after all, I am not a murderer?” cried the artist, suddenly recognising how he had been tricked by the woman who had so artfully cast her toils about him and bound him to do her bidding.“No; you are innocent.”“Ah, Gabrielle,” he cried earnestly, “how shall I ever thank you enough for clearing up the awful mystery and removing the guilty burden from my conscience?”“Before you thank me, hear the end,” she said calmly. “I told you how I married Glanville. Well, at that time I believed him to be a student of whose conviction I had unfortunately been the cause. Yet after his escape he wrote to me, making an appointment for me to meet him in London, and admitting that Glanville was only a name he had assumed in order that his friends should not discover that he had entered Bohemia. It was his hobby to study Art—”“Who was he, then?” inquired Hugh, interrupting.“Your brother.”“Douglas?” he ejaculated, in abject amazement.“Yes.”“Surely you must be mistaken,” cried Egerton incredulously.“I said I would convince you. Here is the letter,” and she handed the missive for their inspection.“Did you meet as arranged?” Hugh asked breathlessly, recognising his brother’s handwriting.“No. Long before the enactment of the tragedy, this woman and her myrmidons, Victor Bérard and Pierre Rouillier,aliasChavoix, had discovered who Glanville was, and also that he had a brother who would inherit the estate in the event of his decease. Yet the plot does not seem to have occurred to them until after his imprisonment. My husband arrived in England several days earlier than I expected—”“And they murdered him?”“Yes. From place to place they followed him until a fitting opportunity occurred, and, as you are aware, they carried out their evil design in an omnibus in a clever, audacious manner that baffled the police. The murder remained a mystery, and it was not until several months afterwards that I succeeded in obtaining conclusive evidence proving that either Valérie or her accomplice, Bérard, assassinated him. They were unaware that I had married him, for I had returned to Paris and gone upon the stage again. But I afterwards accepted a London engagement, and set myself to watch the development of their skilfully concocted plans.”“But what was their object in taking his life?” Hugh inquired, bewildered by the extraordinary narrative.“It was quite plain. Immediately after our marriage, before we left the chapel, I told Douglas that it was Valérie who had killed Nicholson, and not himself, as he believed. The reason I did so was in order that he should see how he had been tricked, and the announcement, I feel sure, transformed his love for her into deadly hate. Before he left ‘La Nouvelle’ I believe he managed to write to her explaining that he had discovered her treachery, and announcing his intention of seeking revenge. It was the knowledge that he had discovered her secret that first prompted them to murder him. Their design was a deep one, to ultimately obtain your money. They saw that it was impossible for Valérie to marry Douglas after what had occurred, while on the other hand it was obvious that if they killed him the estate would pass to you, and Valérie could afterwards marry you for the sole object of obtaining possession of the money. They believed, too, that if Douglas died, Valérie’s secret would be safe, therefore what greater incentive to commit the murder could there have been?”“Could they not have obtained his money without taking his life?” asked Hugh.“No. The preservation of the secret of Valérie’s guilt was to them of vital importance, for while Douglas lived he would always have her in his power. She little thought, however, that it was I who had witnessed her crime and told Douglas the truth. She felt confident that by killing him she would be free.”“And that she did, alas!” Trethowen added bitterly. “Ah! you have little idea of the terrible extremities to which they resorted in order to ensure the success of their nefarious plot. Indeed, the conspiracy was a devilish one; they hesitated at nothing. They had no money when Valérie commenced to allure you by her crafty smiles, and you would never imagine how they obtained sufficient to make you believe she was wealthy.”“How did they? Tell me.”“Rouillier—whom you know as Chavoix—is an adroit swindler, and to his ingenuity the credit for it is due. Some months previously he had insured his life for a large amount, and having made a holograph will bequeathing the money to an imaginary person named Chavoix, he then succeeded in finding a poor, destitute Frenchman in Soho who slightly resembled himself. Aided by Bérard and Holt he drugged his victim, placed his own card-case and letters in his pocket, and flung him from a train on the District Railway. The insensible man was run over and killed. The body was discovered much mutilated, and the insurance company, believing that he had fallen from the train, paid the money over to Pierre, who was already living in a secluded village in Belgium, and who had taken the name of Chavoix.”“How horrible to sacrifice a life for a paltry sum!” Hugh exclaimed, unable even then to fully realise the truth of the extraordinary story of conspiracy and crime.“The manner in which they got rid of you was quite as ingenious as their dealings with that old scoundrel Graham, and all their other plans. You remember, you were in Paris when arrested?”“Yes.”“Well, it was your wife who informed the police. She represented that you were Douglas Trethowen, who had escaped from ‘La Nouvelle.’ You were identified by the photograph in thedossierat Monsieur Goron’s bureau, hence your arrest. The police had already discovered Valérie’sliaisonwith the murdered man Nicholson, and when you were interrogated you admitted that you were her husband. This strengthened their suspicions that you were guilty of complicity in the murder, even if you did not actually kill your wife’s lover. Again, they had previously obtained evidence that Douglas Trethowen was seen to leave the house on the night of the tragedy accompanied by Valérie, therefore it was not surprising that the heavy sentence was passed upon you, especially as Pierre Rouillier gave damning information against you in secret.”“This is all so strange, mademoiselle, that I can scarcely believe it,” Trethowen remarked. “Yet my brother’s connection with this woman—this murderess—accounts for the picture and letters of hers which I found among his papers. I remember now that one of the letters contained the words ‘Boulevard’ and ‘Montabello.’ Yes,” he cried, suddenly realising the truth; “what you have told me tallies with the facts. My brother has been murdered, and I have been victimised by this vile, debased creature, in a manner that has almost cost me my life. I believe you have spoken the truth. My lifelong thanks are due to you for your self-denial in watching the complicated game of these wretches, and rest assured I shall not overlook your claim upon me as my poor brother’s widow.” Turning to Valérie, who still stood ashen pale and trembling, he paused, looking straight into her unflinching eyes with a terrible expression of loathing and hatred.“You!” he cried. “As for you—you know what punishment a murderess deserves! I little dreamed that such a fair form could hide so black a heart; yet it seems that while pretending to reciprocate my love you were planning my destruction—”“No,” she cried wildly. “I—I loved you—once,” and she stretched out her hand as if to grasp his arm. He stepped back quickly, saying—“Keep away! Your touch is polluting!”Her submissive and resigned attitude instantly changed as he uttered this reproach. Her look was menacing and full of hate. She turned furiously upon Gabrielle, and poured forth a torrent of abuse.But she exposed herself to terrible reprisals.Mdlle. Debriège was not a woman to be cowed by the vindictive insults heaped upon her. She had nourished a natural and bitter hatred against this woman who had robbed her of her husband, and now the opportunity for revenge had come she did not fail to take advantage of it.In plain, pointed words she addressed her, without sparing one cause of complaint or a single reproach, and in their full hideousness casting in her teeth the enormity of her sins. She repaid with interest in that moment all the countless sufferings the guilty woman had caused, completely overwhelming her with vituperation. Valérie heard her out with but little interruption, and when at length Gabrielle concluded, there was a moment’s silence.“Now, madame,” exclaimed Hugh sternly, addressing his wife, “we will end this our last interview, for you and I will never meet again. From the bottom of my heart I hate you, hoping that a just retribution will be yours. When it comes, you will probably recollect the words of a man who loved you dearer than his life. Coombe never before gave shelter to a murderess, and it shall do so no longer. The hour is late, therefore I will grant you until to-morrow, but if you have not left here by midday I shall call in the police and give you up to justice. You understand—I shall not depart from my word. The tie which bound us has been broken, and I curse the day when I was so blindly infatuated as to link my life with yours.”“Hugh! Hugh! I—I am penitent. Have pity.”“You had none for me. I have none.”“Hugh! Forgive!”“Never!”As he turned from her, Egerton unlocked the door, and in silence they went out, while the unhappy woman tottered forward, and in despair cast herself upon the couch, burying her face in the silken cushions.
“If you two men would understand how you both have been ensnared and betrayed, listen to the facts I will relate,” said Gabrielle, leaning on the table before her.
“Lies,” observed Valérie, as if speaking to herself.
“A few years ago in Paris,” continued Mademoiselle Debriège, turning to her companions, “there lived, as you know, three artists, named Holt, Glanville, and Egerton. At that time I, too, lived in the Quartier Latin and became acquainted with them by meeting them frequently at the Chat Noir, whither I sometimes went in company with the man who had promised me marriage. The latter, however, forsook me—bah! it was the usual story—a woman’s foolish trust in a man who cast her off like a frayed glove. You understand?”
She paused, and the colour mounted to her cheeks.
“Ruin came,” she went on; “my father, a small tradesman, turned me from his door, and I found myself wandering friendless, forsaken, and homeless in the great city. Eventually I obtained an engagement as afiguranteat the Opera, and while there I first met the woman before you, Valérie Duvauchel. Although a gay coquette, she confided in me the fact that she was living under the protection of Victor Bérard, a convicted thief. I was poor, earning scarcely enough to keep body and soul together, when she asked me to assist her and her lover in their various schemes of robbery. This temptation proved too great, for I was to receive a fair share of the plunder. The first occasion on which I participated in the crusade against riches was at a burglary at Auteuil. We were successful, and I received a thousand francs for my services. During the nine months I was connected with them I assisted at a number of robberies of jewellery and plate, sometimes as a decoy, at others pilfering myself.”
“I never knew you allied yourself in that manner with them,” remarked the artist in surprise, “although I often thought the dresses you wore cost you more than you obtained at the Opera.”
“In order to carry out our plans, I was compelled to dress well,” she replied. “But that has little to do with the events that followed. While assisting Bérard, I frequently spent days about theateliers, and Glanville, the student of the Quai Montabello, and I became enamoured of one another. He had more money at his command than the average denizen of the Ile de la Cité, therefore I was not averse to accompanying him to cafés, balls, and theatres, especially as I had given up my engagement of the Opera, and was dependent entirely upon the proceeds of Victor’s depredations. After a few months at this life I discovered, by mere accident, that my English lover was not so devoted as I believed, and—that he knew Valérie. The affection between this woman and Egerton was a matter of comment among the students living on the Quai, but no one suspected that she favoured Glanville, whom everybody believed idolised me.”
“I didn’t encourage him. I couldn’t help your lover admiring me, could I?” protested Valérie scornfully.
“My awakening was a cruel one,” Gabrielle continued, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I taxed him with faithlessness, but he denied it so earnestly that at length I became convinced of his firm affection for me alone. A few days later a calamity befell us. I had stored in my rooms a quantity of stolen property previous to disposing of it. One evening, while I was out, Glanville called, and, entering with his key, sat down to await me. Hardly a quarter of an hour elapsed before two detectives and half a dozen policemen entered the place, armed with a warrant. They searched and quickly found several valuable articles, descriptions of which had been circulated. Then they arrested and charged him with perpetrating the robberies.”
“Were you arrested also?” asked Hugh, greatly interested in the narrative.
“No; fortunately Victor got wind of the affair, and warned me not to return. I was present, however, at the trial. The police had unfortunately discovered that the property was the proceeds of several extensive burglaries, and the court sentenced him to ten years’ transportation. The first few months he spent in performing hard labour at Brest, and at the end of that period I received a letter from him. It was long and earnest, reminding me of how he was suffering for my sake, and declaring his passionate love. To this I replied, and, after the lapse of a few weeks I received another, urging me to marry him. He said that he was sailing for New Caledonia that day, therefore if I consented I should be compelled to follow him out there. To meet this contingency he gave me the address of a bank, where I was to call and obtain money for my journey; and, further, he stated that in the event of my consenting to become his wife, he had given orders that three thousand francs were to be paid annually to me until his liberation. Naturally, such a proposal caused me grave doubts, especially as I had discovered a few days previous to his arrest a fresh and most striking proof of his love for this vile woman who stands now before you.”
“Did you marry him after all?” inquired the artist impatiently, for he had been in ignorance of all this.
“Yes, Valérie and Victor, having suspicions that the police had scented them, fled from Paris: consequently I was without means. Although I was fond of Glanville, and admired his courage in shielding me, yet I did not love him so well as another man I had lately met. However, finding myself almost destitute, I drew the money from the bank, and sailed for ‘La Nouvelle’ where, after a few weeks’ residence, the Governor gave us permission to marry. The ceremony was duly performed, and I have here the lines which prove it,” she added, exhibiting a small strip of paper which she had taken from her pocket.
“Your honey noon was scarcely pleasant, I should think,” observed Hugh sympathetically.
“Its brevity did not allow either of us to become bored,” she said. “I parted from him at the chapel door, and I have not seen him since.”
“Not seen him!” repeated Egerton. “Why, has he not yet obtained his freedom?”
“Yes; he escaped before he had been there two years. However, we never met.”
“But why did you marry him?” the artist asked. “A convict was hardly a desirable husband.”
“Ah! you wonder. Well, there were several reasons,” she said. “Firstly, I was afraid lest he should expose me with regard to a certain incident which occurred at Passy, in which Bérard and I were implicated. We were on a midnight expedition, and a policeman who proved troublesome received an ugly dig with a knife; therefore I was confident that if this were divulged I should be arrested and sentenced as one of Victor’s accessories. Then, again, I had been told by an Englishman who knew him that Glanville had an ample income, and this was confirmed by his offer to provide me with money until his release. Besides, he, on the other hand, was anxious to marry me in order to secure my silence, because he knew I had discovered a secret of his which, if not preserved, might bring dire consequences. It may have been for the best that we parted so quickly, for as soon as the marriage ceremony was performed I regretted the rash step, inasmuch as the recollection of my discovery regarding his alliance with this woman came back to me in all its hideous reality.”
“What alliance?” inquired Valérie, whose firm, set face was as colourless as the dress she wore.
“It is well you should feign ignorance,” Gabrielle replied angrily. Then, turning to the two men, she said: “In order that you shall understand matters aright, I shall be compelled to describe the scene. It took place in a suite of rooms in the Boulevard Haussmann tenanted by an English dealer in gems named Nicholson.”
“What do you know of him?” cried Valérie in a husky voice.
“Have patience and you shall hear,” she answered with a sarcastic smile. Again addressing her companions, she continued her narrative, saying: “While this woman was living with Victor, she had enchanted Egerton and Glanville. Both, unaware of one another’s feelings, were ecstatic over her face and figure; both worshipped her, and both were prepared to do anything to secure her favour.”
“That is true,” admitted the artist moodily. “I was a brainless fool. Yet I did not know until now that Glanville had also been smitten by her fatal beauty.”
“He had, nevertheless, as you will see. This woman—who afterwards assumed the name of Dedieu—with her usual crafty far-sightedness saw that it was possible to turn the mad impetuosity of you and your fellow-student to her advantage, and did not fail to embrace the opportunity. The scheme she concocted was indeed a fiendish one, which she carried out unaided, and the secret would have been safe even now had I not been the witness of her crime.”
“You—you saw me?” shrieked Valérie in dismay. “You lie! You saw nothing.”
“Her crime! What was it? Tell us quickly,” urged Hugh.
“The facts are almost incredible, but they are simply as follows: Nicholson was her lover, and the safe in his room contained a quantity of cut and uncut gems. She devised an ingenious plan by which she could get rid of her lover, obtain the stones, and throw the guilt upon the two men who were infatuated with her.”
“Bah! don’t believe her!—she’s telling you a pretty romance!” declared Valérie, striving to appear unconcerned.
But Gabrielle took no notice of her interruptions.
“The way she set about it,” she went on, “was, to say the least, skilful and heartless. Showing favour to each, unknown to the other, she told them that Nicholson held her enthralled by means of a secret, and that she was unable to break from him in consequence. An insinuating proposal she made was likely to lead to but one result—a promise from each that they would take Nicholson’s life.”
“Wretch?” hissed the unhappy woman, under her breath.
“She arranged the details of the assassination with both, instructing each in the manner by which the Englishman was to be killed. Both were in ignorance of each other’s intention, for she gave them strict injunctions to preserve the secret as they valued their lives. These facts I afterwards learnt, but I must tell you now how I became aware of the plot. Glanville had gone to London for a week, and I also had been away in the country for a few days. It was about half-past nine at night when I arrived at the St. Lazare Station, and while passing down the Boulevard Haussmann it suddenly occurred to me that Nicholson, being a very intimate friend of Glanville’s, would most probably be aware whether he had returned from England. I scarcely know what prompted me, but I halted before the house and ascended the stairs. The concierge was absent, and the staircase was in darkness, he having omitted to light the gas.”
“Of course, you knew Nicholson,” observed the artist. “I remember it was I who introduced you.”
“Yes; I had frequently met him with Glanville, and had been to his rooms before. Without much difficulty I found the door. It was ajar, and I pushed it open noiselessly. As I did so I heard loud excited talking, and recognised one of the voices as that of Valérie. The discovery that she had called upon this man excited my curiosity, and I resolved to watch them. They were in a room upon the left of the passage, the door of which was almost closed. Passing with scarcely a sound, I entered the sitting-room, and glanced round for some place of concealment. There were several, but the one I decided upon was behind the heavy crimson curtains that were drawn across the window overlooking the boulevard. Scarcely had I retired into my hiding-place when I heard the Englishman walk to the outer door and close it. Then he returned to the room in a frenzy of passion, invoking terrible curses upon her. They spoke in English, which at that time I did not understand; yet it was evident she had done something to arouse his hatred, for a few moments later she screamed for mercy, and rushed headlong into the room where I was. He followed at her heels, and, clutching her by the throat, flung her backwards upon the sofa. His face was livid with passion, and for several minutes they struggled together. Then, almost before I was aware of her intention, I heard a loud report. A puff of smoke curled between them as he relaxed his hold and grasped convulsively at his breast. ‘Dieu! Valérie! You—you’ve shot—me!’ were the only words that he uttered, for he reeled and fell backwards, striking his head violently upon the corner of the table.”
“Did she really murder him?” asked the artist breathlessly.
“Yes; the revolver with which, as I afterwards found, she had shot him through the heart, was still smoking in her hand. Flinging it from her to the opposite end of the room, she bent over the body of her lover and extracted the keys from his pocket. Crossing to the mock bookcase, she pressed a button and opened it, revealing the ponderous iron doors of the safe. Without hesitation she quickly applied the keys, and the handles yielded. In a few moments she had cleared the two iron drawers of the white paper packets they contained. Satisfying herself that she had not overlooked anything of value, she quickly closed the safe and transferred the plunder to the pockets of her dress and jacket.”
“Ciel! Shedoesknow!” escaped Valérie’s lips involuntarily, as she stood trembling and leaning heavily upon the chair, her distended eyes glaring at the trio before her with a terrible fire of hatred.
“But what of Nicholson?” asked Hugh. “Was he dead?”
“Quite. Death had been almost instantaneous,” Gabrielle replied, speaking in the same distinct, mechanical tones in which she had recounted the strange incidents. “When the murderess had concluded her search for the gems, she turned her attention to the body. First, she bent and satisfied herself that there was no movement of the heart, then, by dint of exerting every muscle, she managed to drag the body up and seat it in the chair at the writing-table. The limbs being not yet rigid, it was an easy task to place it in a natural position, with the arms leaning upon the table and head bending over, as if reading the papers, which she spread out upon the blotting-pad. After she had rearranged the room, she glanced at the watch she wore in a bangle upon her wrist. Lighting the reading-lamp and turning out the gas, she left the room with only a dim, subdued light. She had just completed this when she started at the click of a latchkey in the outer door, and concealed herself quickly behind a high screen which stood near the fireplace. Barely had she time to do this before Egerton entered, and, creeping up cautiously behind the dead man’s chair, struck him a terrible, murderous blow in the back with a long sharp knife he carried in his hand. The force he used caused the body to overbalance and roll, with the chair, upon the floor. With scarcely a second look at the result of his horrible work, he turned and stole out as noiselessly as he had entered. In a few minutes Valérie, having convinced herself of his departure, emerged from her hiding-place, and again reseated the corpse in its chair, at the same time removing the blood from the clothes with a cloth she obtained from a drawer. For a few minutes she was engaged in staunching the blood, and prevented it from flowing over his coat after she had withdrawn the knife from the wound. Subsequently she went into the adjoining apartment, and was absent about ten minutes. When she re-entered, Glanville accompanied her. He, too, was also armed with a knife, the blade of which gleamed in the ray of lamplight which fell upon it. The murderess crept stealthily behind the corpse and, bending over, placed her arms around its neck, as if caressing it, while at that moment, in obedience to a motion from her, the student rushed up and struck it a violent blow with the knife full in the chest. Valérie released her hold and again the body lolled upon the floor. The woman snatched up her hat, and, without casting a glance at the murdered man or uttering a word, both went out and closed the door after them. Five minutes later I followed, hardly daring to breathe until I had reached the boulevard and mingled with the people.”
“Good God! Is it really true?” demanded Egerton excitedly.
“True? Bah! Surely you are not such an imbecile as to believe the foul lies of that woman?” shouted Hugh’s wife. “She has no proof.”
“I’ll convince you before I have finished,” answered Gabrielle. “The strangest phase of the affair yet remains to be narrated—”
“Diable!” cried the trembling woman passionately. “Ah! you would crush me, would you not?” she said, with a hollow laugh. “You—you would hurry me off to pay the penalty without a moment’s pity. But I shall be out of your reach. You see well enough that you can’t succeed; bah! you are vanquished.”
Gabrielle took no heed of this sudden outburst of fury. Drawing from her pocket a crumpled newspaper, she said—
“This is a copy of theGaulois, containing a full report of the discovery of the body, and if you read it you will find the three distinct wounds described as I have explained.”
“Then, after all, I am not a murderer?” cried the artist, suddenly recognising how he had been tricked by the woman who had so artfully cast her toils about him and bound him to do her bidding.
“No; you are innocent.”
“Ah, Gabrielle,” he cried earnestly, “how shall I ever thank you enough for clearing up the awful mystery and removing the guilty burden from my conscience?”
“Before you thank me, hear the end,” she said calmly. “I told you how I married Glanville. Well, at that time I believed him to be a student of whose conviction I had unfortunately been the cause. Yet after his escape he wrote to me, making an appointment for me to meet him in London, and admitting that Glanville was only a name he had assumed in order that his friends should not discover that he had entered Bohemia. It was his hobby to study Art—”
“Who was he, then?” inquired Hugh, interrupting.
“Your brother.”
“Douglas?” he ejaculated, in abject amazement.
“Yes.”
“Surely you must be mistaken,” cried Egerton incredulously.
“I said I would convince you. Here is the letter,” and she handed the missive for their inspection.
“Did you meet as arranged?” Hugh asked breathlessly, recognising his brother’s handwriting.
“No. Long before the enactment of the tragedy, this woman and her myrmidons, Victor Bérard and Pierre Rouillier,aliasChavoix, had discovered who Glanville was, and also that he had a brother who would inherit the estate in the event of his decease. Yet the plot does not seem to have occurred to them until after his imprisonment. My husband arrived in England several days earlier than I expected—”
“And they murdered him?”
“Yes. From place to place they followed him until a fitting opportunity occurred, and, as you are aware, they carried out their evil design in an omnibus in a clever, audacious manner that baffled the police. The murder remained a mystery, and it was not until several months afterwards that I succeeded in obtaining conclusive evidence proving that either Valérie or her accomplice, Bérard, assassinated him. They were unaware that I had married him, for I had returned to Paris and gone upon the stage again. But I afterwards accepted a London engagement, and set myself to watch the development of their skilfully concocted plans.”
“But what was their object in taking his life?” Hugh inquired, bewildered by the extraordinary narrative.
“It was quite plain. Immediately after our marriage, before we left the chapel, I told Douglas that it was Valérie who had killed Nicholson, and not himself, as he believed. The reason I did so was in order that he should see how he had been tricked, and the announcement, I feel sure, transformed his love for her into deadly hate. Before he left ‘La Nouvelle’ I believe he managed to write to her explaining that he had discovered her treachery, and announcing his intention of seeking revenge. It was the knowledge that he had discovered her secret that first prompted them to murder him. Their design was a deep one, to ultimately obtain your money. They saw that it was impossible for Valérie to marry Douglas after what had occurred, while on the other hand it was obvious that if they killed him the estate would pass to you, and Valérie could afterwards marry you for the sole object of obtaining possession of the money. They believed, too, that if Douglas died, Valérie’s secret would be safe, therefore what greater incentive to commit the murder could there have been?”
“Could they not have obtained his money without taking his life?” asked Hugh.
“No. The preservation of the secret of Valérie’s guilt was to them of vital importance, for while Douglas lived he would always have her in his power. She little thought, however, that it was I who had witnessed her crime and told Douglas the truth. She felt confident that by killing him she would be free.”
“And that she did, alas!” Trethowen added bitterly. “Ah! you have little idea of the terrible extremities to which they resorted in order to ensure the success of their nefarious plot. Indeed, the conspiracy was a devilish one; they hesitated at nothing. They had no money when Valérie commenced to allure you by her crafty smiles, and you would never imagine how they obtained sufficient to make you believe she was wealthy.”
“How did they? Tell me.”
“Rouillier—whom you know as Chavoix—is an adroit swindler, and to his ingenuity the credit for it is due. Some months previously he had insured his life for a large amount, and having made a holograph will bequeathing the money to an imaginary person named Chavoix, he then succeeded in finding a poor, destitute Frenchman in Soho who slightly resembled himself. Aided by Bérard and Holt he drugged his victim, placed his own card-case and letters in his pocket, and flung him from a train on the District Railway. The insensible man was run over and killed. The body was discovered much mutilated, and the insurance company, believing that he had fallen from the train, paid the money over to Pierre, who was already living in a secluded village in Belgium, and who had taken the name of Chavoix.”
“How horrible to sacrifice a life for a paltry sum!” Hugh exclaimed, unable even then to fully realise the truth of the extraordinary story of conspiracy and crime.
“The manner in which they got rid of you was quite as ingenious as their dealings with that old scoundrel Graham, and all their other plans. You remember, you were in Paris when arrested?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was your wife who informed the police. She represented that you were Douglas Trethowen, who had escaped from ‘La Nouvelle.’ You were identified by the photograph in thedossierat Monsieur Goron’s bureau, hence your arrest. The police had already discovered Valérie’sliaisonwith the murdered man Nicholson, and when you were interrogated you admitted that you were her husband. This strengthened their suspicions that you were guilty of complicity in the murder, even if you did not actually kill your wife’s lover. Again, they had previously obtained evidence that Douglas Trethowen was seen to leave the house on the night of the tragedy accompanied by Valérie, therefore it was not surprising that the heavy sentence was passed upon you, especially as Pierre Rouillier gave damning information against you in secret.”
“This is all so strange, mademoiselle, that I can scarcely believe it,” Trethowen remarked. “Yet my brother’s connection with this woman—this murderess—accounts for the picture and letters of hers which I found among his papers. I remember now that one of the letters contained the words ‘Boulevard’ and ‘Montabello.’ Yes,” he cried, suddenly realising the truth; “what you have told me tallies with the facts. My brother has been murdered, and I have been victimised by this vile, debased creature, in a manner that has almost cost me my life. I believe you have spoken the truth. My lifelong thanks are due to you for your self-denial in watching the complicated game of these wretches, and rest assured I shall not overlook your claim upon me as my poor brother’s widow.” Turning to Valérie, who still stood ashen pale and trembling, he paused, looking straight into her unflinching eyes with a terrible expression of loathing and hatred.
“You!” he cried. “As for you—you know what punishment a murderess deserves! I little dreamed that such a fair form could hide so black a heart; yet it seems that while pretending to reciprocate my love you were planning my destruction—”
“No,” she cried wildly. “I—I loved you—once,” and she stretched out her hand as if to grasp his arm. He stepped back quickly, saying—
“Keep away! Your touch is polluting!”
Her submissive and resigned attitude instantly changed as he uttered this reproach. Her look was menacing and full of hate. She turned furiously upon Gabrielle, and poured forth a torrent of abuse.
But she exposed herself to terrible reprisals.
Mdlle. Debriège was not a woman to be cowed by the vindictive insults heaped upon her. She had nourished a natural and bitter hatred against this woman who had robbed her of her husband, and now the opportunity for revenge had come she did not fail to take advantage of it.
In plain, pointed words she addressed her, without sparing one cause of complaint or a single reproach, and in their full hideousness casting in her teeth the enormity of her sins. She repaid with interest in that moment all the countless sufferings the guilty woman had caused, completely overwhelming her with vituperation. Valérie heard her out with but little interruption, and when at length Gabrielle concluded, there was a moment’s silence.
“Now, madame,” exclaimed Hugh sternly, addressing his wife, “we will end this our last interview, for you and I will never meet again. From the bottom of my heart I hate you, hoping that a just retribution will be yours. When it comes, you will probably recollect the words of a man who loved you dearer than his life. Coombe never before gave shelter to a murderess, and it shall do so no longer. The hour is late, therefore I will grant you until to-morrow, but if you have not left here by midday I shall call in the police and give you up to justice. You understand—I shall not depart from my word. The tie which bound us has been broken, and I curse the day when I was so blindly infatuated as to link my life with yours.”
“Hugh! Hugh! I—I am penitent. Have pity.”
“You had none for me. I have none.”
“Hugh! Forgive!”
“Never!”
As he turned from her, Egerton unlocked the door, and in silence they went out, while the unhappy woman tottered forward, and in despair cast herself upon the couch, burying her face in the silken cushions.
Chapter Thirty Five.Devil’s Dice.Alone in her dainty little boudoir, Valérie was standing deep in thought.In the ballroom, the excited revellers continued their antics, and the fair gleeful angels, now thoroughly resigned to their sable attendant spirits, allowed themselves to be whirled wildly up and down the room amid the applause of the gay assembly, who were too amused and absorbed with the novelty of the scene to notice the absence of their hostess. Had they seen her at that moment they would scarce have recognised her as the woman who, only an hour before, was so radiant and reckless, and who had headed the Demon’s Dance with so light a heart.Nanette, having entered unexpectedly without knocking, had been surprised to find her mistress crouching by the fire in the cosy, luxuriant room, and noticing her pallor and agitation, asked with alarm what ailed her.“It’s a mere trifle,” was the abrupt reply. “I—I’m not very well. Should any of the people ask for me, tell them—tell them I have a bad headache—say anything, only don’t let them disturb me. I must be alone—you understand?”“Yes, madame,” said the girl. “This came for you by to-night’s post. You have been so worried about the dance, I thought I would not give it to you before you came upstairs,” she added, handing her mistress a letter.Valérie glanced hastily at the envelope.“You may go, Nanette,” she said calmly. “I shall require nothing more to-night. Perhaps to-morrow I shall leave for London.”“Very well, madame,” and rather pleased at this early release from her duties, the maid discreetly withdrew, closing the door noiselessly.Going over to the corner where stood a tall lamp, the light of which was tempered by a shade of amber silk, she tore open the letter eagerly, and read its contents.“Ah!” she cried, staggering as if she had been dealt a crushing blow, and staring wildly at the open note in her hand. “He, too—he has deserted me! I am forsaken!”The letter, indeed, completed the retribution which had fallen so suddenly and mercilessly upon her. It was a short, curt note from Pierre Rouillier, whom she had left in London, stating that, having discovered that Gabrielle had instituted inquiries, and fearing the exposure that must inevitably follow, he had taken the money she had entrusted to him to deposit in the bank, and was leaving England that night. The communication concluded with a cold, heartless declaration that he had grown tired of her caprices, and therefore he had resolved that they should never meet again.Wounded to the quick, she tore the letter in half, and cast it upon the fire.“Miserable coward!” she hissed. “Afraid of your own safety, you run away and leave me to meet them alone.”Sublime in her indignation, she paced the room impatiently. In her despair she pushed the thick hair from her hot, fevered brow. It came unloosened, and fell in profuse luxuriance over her bare heaving breast, while at the same time the diamond star dropped upon the floor, and lay glistening in the fitful firelight.Mad with passion, she crushed it under the heel of her tiny satin shoe.Ignominious defeat, combined with the desertion of the only man for whom she entertained a spark of genuine affection, had completely corroded her soul. At first she thought only of revenge, and strode up and down muttering fearful imprecations upon those who had been the cause of her downfall. With a sudden ebullition of passion she unclasped the bracelet from her wrist, and flinging it down, treated it in the same manner as the other ornament. Then hooking her thin white fingers in the lace of her bodice, she tore it to shreds, casting the fragments heedlessly about her.She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror; a shudder passed over her graceful form, and her slim hands trembled violently.“Dieu!” she wailed. “What shall I do? Enemies on every side await their opportunity to overthrow me, and jeer at my discomfiture! Ah! what a fate!”Pale as the gown she wore, she reeled, and would have fallen had she not clutched the table for support.Her passion was succeeded by blank, poignant despair. The bloodless lips were compressed firmly as she made a vain effort to shake off the terrible fear which had taken possession of her; but the soft, smooth brow contracted, and the handsome face became dark and gloomy. She could not put away the black forebodings; they clung to her; they clutched her mind with a desperate grasp, and she was powerless to resist them. Her whole frame shook with a feverish tremor, for she was conscious that fate was against her, and that the spirit of evil was hovering about her ready to drag her down to destruction.Her lips quivered, but she stood motionless and mute in contemplation.The strains of a dreamy waltz penetrating into the room jarred upon her nerves. She covered her ears with her hands to shut out the sound of gaiety, and waited patiently until it had ceased.“If I leave here what will be my future?” she asked aloud in desperation. “I can do nothing—nothing. Hugh knows all—everything! I am already branded as a murderess—a woman who should be hunted down and delivered to justice! And what then? Suppose that cursed Gabrielle gave me up to the police?” She paused, and drew a long breath before continuing.“La Roquette! Thelunette!” she cried hoarsely. “I see them! I know how justice would punish me, and how my enemies, those who are jealous of my success, would triumph. No—no!Dieu! I couldn’t bear it—I—!”A deep-drawn sob burst from her, and she hid her agonised face in her hands.The stillness was only broken by the ticking of the tiny Dresden dock, the chimes of which, as it struck the hour, mingled with the sighs of the dejected woman.—Presently she raised her blanched face.“Death!” she exclaimed in a husky whisper, looking half fearfully around, as if startled at the sound of her own voice. “Nothing else remains for me. There is no hope—no mercy—I am guilty—guilty! Sooner or later death will be the punishment of my crime, so why not now? If I escape from here, I shall only plunge into poverty and be tracked by the bloodhounds of the law. Ah! no!Sapristi! I prefer death!” With wild, wearied eyes she gazed slowly around, bewildered by her own suggestion.“Yet am I so much to blame after all?” she soliloquised. “It was Victor’s suggestion—he taught me to commit robbery. He compelled me to commit murder. Dazzled by the prospect of wealth and luxury he held constantly before my eyes, I submitted. He made me his cat’s-paw to perpetrate crimes which he was too great a coward to commit himself, and when he found himself cornered he exposed me in order to deprive me of liberty and life. Had I never met the mean, contemptible scoundrel, I should have led as blameless a life as ordinary women, and remained the dutiful wife of Percy Willoughby, notwithstanding his ill-treatment.”Across her aching forehead she passed her hand quickly, brushing her hair back from her face.“Bah!” she continued, with bitterness. “What’s the use of thinking of things as they might have been? Victor’s companionship made me callous, and I stained my hands with crime in order to gain riches. I abandoned every womanly feeling and instinct, and carried out the plot without regard for those who stood in my way. Therefore, there are no extenuating circumstances. No. I staked my life upon the game, but, my usual luck having deserted me, I have lost—lost irretrievably. I must pay.”Her frenzy of passion had been succeeded by a calm thoughtful mood, and she was silently reviewing her past, recognising for the first time how vile and hideous were her sins.“God,” she cried, in an intense, pitiful voice, “I would give all—everything I possess—if it were possible to atone—if I could obtain Hugh’s forgiveness! He loved me so dearly, lavished all his affection and money upon me, and closed his ears to the truth, which he thought calumnies, yet—I killed his brother—stabbed him—afterwards sending Hugh himself to penal servitude. And for what? Merely for my own aggrandisement—in order that I might become mistress of this place, and live in luxury and ease. It was a foul, horrible plot,” she added, shuddering. “Repentance is useless, forgiveness hopeless; I can only—die—die!”As she uttered these words her eyes fell upon the davenport which stood on the opposite side of the room. A thought suddenly occurred to her. She crossed the boudoir, and, seating herself, took up a pen and commenced to write rapidly.The letter was long and rambling, devoid of any endearing terms. It commenced with an admission of her marriage with Willoughby and the subsequent divorce, followed by a full confession of the murder of Douglas Trethowen. She wrote:I was walking along Pall Mall alone, about ten o’clock at night, when I encountered him, not by accident but by design. He quickly recognised me, and appeared pleased that we had met. For nearly a quarter of an hour we stood talking, until he told me he had an appointment at Liverpool Street Station. At that moment an omnibus slackened speed opposite us to allow two men to alight. I suggested we should go to the City together in the ’bus, and we entered it. There was no conductor, and we were alone. Scarcely had we entered the vehicle when his manner suddenly changed, and he spoke of the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann. His attitude was threatening, and he said that now I was there with him without any chance of escape, he intended to give me up to the police as a murderess when the conveyance arrived at its destination. I grew frightened, for I was convinced from his manner that he meant what he said. It was not by accident, but by intention, that I had met him, and I was fully prepared. I saw the time had come, and, drawing from my pocket the handkerchief I had prepared, I soon quieted him. Then I struck the blow. I drove the knife in hard; it killed him. It all happened in a few moments, and while the omnibus was still in motion and about to enter the Strand I jumped out quickly and made my escape.The remainder of the letter was a confused and disjointed declaration of love, combined with a penitent entreaty for forgiveness, without any attempt at palliation.Blotting the tears that had fallen and blurred the words as she wrote, she placed it in an envelope and addressed it with a nervous, shaky hand “To Hugh.”“Ah, well,” she murmured, sighing heavily.Again she opened the davenport, and from under some papers took a little morocco case. Rigid and determined, she rose, more calm than before. Her lips were thin and white, her teeth tightly clenched, and in her eyes was a fixed, stony look. Walking with firm steps to the door, she locked it, afterwards flinging herself upon a chair beside the small bamboo table in the centre of the room.Overwhelmed by despair, she had no longer any desire for life. Insanity, begotten of despondency and fear, prompted with headlong wilfulness, an ardent longing for death.Opening the case, she extracted from its blue velvet interior a tiny silver hypodermic syringe and a small glass phial. Examining the latter in the dim light, she saw it was labelled “Chloral.” This was not the drug she desired. She was in the habit of injecting this for the purpose of soothing her nerves, and knew that it was too weak to produce fatal effect.Her breath came and went in short uneven gasps, while her half-uncovered breast heaved and fell with the excitement of her temporary madness.Staggering to her feet, she returned swiftly to the davenport, from which, after a few moments’ search, she abstracted a small dark-blue bottle containing morphia, afterwards reseating herself, and, uncorking it, placed it upon the table.Taking up the syringe, she tried its needle-point with her finger. It pricked her, and she cast it from her with an exclamation of repugnance.“Dieu!” she gasped hoarsely. “I have no courage. Bah! I am still a coward!”Yet, as it lay upon the table she fixed her strained eyes upon it, for as an instrument of death it possessed a fatal fascination for her.Slowly she stretched forth her hand, and again took it between her cold fingers. Then, with a sudden resolve, she filled it to its utmost capacity with the drug from the bottle.“A certain remedy for mental ailments,” she remarked to herself, smiling bitterly as she held it up contemplatively. “Who will regret my death or shed a tear? No one. I have no adieux to make—none. As a friendless, sinful wretch, I adopt the preferable mode of speedy death rather than undergo the ordeal of a criminal trial, with its inevitable result. I would live and atone for the past if I could, but that is impossible. Ah! too late, alas! Pierre has forsaken me, and I am alone. Forgiveness! Bah! A mere mockery to set the conscience at rest. What use? I—I can never be forgiven—never!”While speaking she had, with a feeble, trembling hand, applied the sharp point of the syringe to her bare white arm. Unflinchingly she ran the needle deep into the flesh, and thrice slowly emptied the liquid into the puncture.She watched the bead of dark blood oozing from the wound when she withdrew the instrument, and quickly covered it with her thumb in order that the injection should be fully absorbed in her veins.“Ah!” she gasped, in sudden terror a moment later, as the syringe dropped from her nerveless grasp, “I—I feel so giddy! I can’t breathe! I’m choking! The poison’s killing me. Ha, ha, I’m dying!” she laughed hysterically. “They thought to triumph over me, the vultures! but, after all, I’ve cheated them. They’ll find that Valérie Duvauchel was neither coward nor fool when run to earth!”Springing to her feet she clutched convulsively at her throat, tearing the flesh with her nails in a horrible paroxysm of pain.The injection had swiftly accomplished its work.“Pierre! Pierre!” she articulated with difficulty, in a fierce, hoarse whisper, “where are you? Ah! I see! You—you’ve returned. Why did you leave me in their merciless clutches when you knew that—that I always—loved you? Kiss me—mon cher! Kiss me—darling,—kiss me, Pierre—”The words choked her.Blindly she staggered forward a few steps, vainly endeavouring to steady herself.With a short, shrill scream she wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot, then tottered, and fell backwards, inert, and lifeless!A dead, unbroken silence followed. The spirit of Valérie Duvauchel had departed, leaving the body as that of a dishevelled fallen angel.In a few moments the strains of another plaintive waltz penetrated into the chamber of death, forming a strange incongruous dirge.When, a few hours later, the yellow winter’s dawn crept in through the window, the dull, uncertain light fell upon the calm, upturned countenance.It was beautiful—very beautiful. Before the last breath had departed, the drawn, haggard features had relaxed and resumed their enchanting smile.Yet there was something in the expression of the blanched face which cast a chill upon the admiration of its loveliness—the brand of guilt was there.
Alone in her dainty little boudoir, Valérie was standing deep in thought.
In the ballroom, the excited revellers continued their antics, and the fair gleeful angels, now thoroughly resigned to their sable attendant spirits, allowed themselves to be whirled wildly up and down the room amid the applause of the gay assembly, who were too amused and absorbed with the novelty of the scene to notice the absence of their hostess. Had they seen her at that moment they would scarce have recognised her as the woman who, only an hour before, was so radiant and reckless, and who had headed the Demon’s Dance with so light a heart.
Nanette, having entered unexpectedly without knocking, had been surprised to find her mistress crouching by the fire in the cosy, luxuriant room, and noticing her pallor and agitation, asked with alarm what ailed her.
“It’s a mere trifle,” was the abrupt reply. “I—I’m not very well. Should any of the people ask for me, tell them—tell them I have a bad headache—say anything, only don’t let them disturb me. I must be alone—you understand?”
“Yes, madame,” said the girl. “This came for you by to-night’s post. You have been so worried about the dance, I thought I would not give it to you before you came upstairs,” she added, handing her mistress a letter.
Valérie glanced hastily at the envelope.
“You may go, Nanette,” she said calmly. “I shall require nothing more to-night. Perhaps to-morrow I shall leave for London.”
“Very well, madame,” and rather pleased at this early release from her duties, the maid discreetly withdrew, closing the door noiselessly.
Going over to the corner where stood a tall lamp, the light of which was tempered by a shade of amber silk, she tore open the letter eagerly, and read its contents.
“Ah!” she cried, staggering as if she had been dealt a crushing blow, and staring wildly at the open note in her hand. “He, too—he has deserted me! I am forsaken!”
The letter, indeed, completed the retribution which had fallen so suddenly and mercilessly upon her. It was a short, curt note from Pierre Rouillier, whom she had left in London, stating that, having discovered that Gabrielle had instituted inquiries, and fearing the exposure that must inevitably follow, he had taken the money she had entrusted to him to deposit in the bank, and was leaving England that night. The communication concluded with a cold, heartless declaration that he had grown tired of her caprices, and therefore he had resolved that they should never meet again.
Wounded to the quick, she tore the letter in half, and cast it upon the fire.
“Miserable coward!” she hissed. “Afraid of your own safety, you run away and leave me to meet them alone.”
Sublime in her indignation, she paced the room impatiently. In her despair she pushed the thick hair from her hot, fevered brow. It came unloosened, and fell in profuse luxuriance over her bare heaving breast, while at the same time the diamond star dropped upon the floor, and lay glistening in the fitful firelight.
Mad with passion, she crushed it under the heel of her tiny satin shoe.
Ignominious defeat, combined with the desertion of the only man for whom she entertained a spark of genuine affection, had completely corroded her soul. At first she thought only of revenge, and strode up and down muttering fearful imprecations upon those who had been the cause of her downfall. With a sudden ebullition of passion she unclasped the bracelet from her wrist, and flinging it down, treated it in the same manner as the other ornament. Then hooking her thin white fingers in the lace of her bodice, she tore it to shreds, casting the fragments heedlessly about her.
She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror; a shudder passed over her graceful form, and her slim hands trembled violently.
“Dieu!” she wailed. “What shall I do? Enemies on every side await their opportunity to overthrow me, and jeer at my discomfiture! Ah! what a fate!”
Pale as the gown she wore, she reeled, and would have fallen had she not clutched the table for support.
Her passion was succeeded by blank, poignant despair. The bloodless lips were compressed firmly as she made a vain effort to shake off the terrible fear which had taken possession of her; but the soft, smooth brow contracted, and the handsome face became dark and gloomy. She could not put away the black forebodings; they clung to her; they clutched her mind with a desperate grasp, and she was powerless to resist them. Her whole frame shook with a feverish tremor, for she was conscious that fate was against her, and that the spirit of evil was hovering about her ready to drag her down to destruction.
Her lips quivered, but she stood motionless and mute in contemplation.
The strains of a dreamy waltz penetrating into the room jarred upon her nerves. She covered her ears with her hands to shut out the sound of gaiety, and waited patiently until it had ceased.
“If I leave here what will be my future?” she asked aloud in desperation. “I can do nothing—nothing. Hugh knows all—everything! I am already branded as a murderess—a woman who should be hunted down and delivered to justice! And what then? Suppose that cursed Gabrielle gave me up to the police?” She paused, and drew a long breath before continuing.
“La Roquette! Thelunette!” she cried hoarsely. “I see them! I know how justice would punish me, and how my enemies, those who are jealous of my success, would triumph. No—no!Dieu! I couldn’t bear it—I—!”
A deep-drawn sob burst from her, and she hid her agonised face in her hands.
The stillness was only broken by the ticking of the tiny Dresden dock, the chimes of which, as it struck the hour, mingled with the sighs of the dejected woman.—Presently she raised her blanched face.
“Death!” she exclaimed in a husky whisper, looking half fearfully around, as if startled at the sound of her own voice. “Nothing else remains for me. There is no hope—no mercy—I am guilty—guilty! Sooner or later death will be the punishment of my crime, so why not now? If I escape from here, I shall only plunge into poverty and be tracked by the bloodhounds of the law. Ah! no!Sapristi! I prefer death!” With wild, wearied eyes she gazed slowly around, bewildered by her own suggestion.
“Yet am I so much to blame after all?” she soliloquised. “It was Victor’s suggestion—he taught me to commit robbery. He compelled me to commit murder. Dazzled by the prospect of wealth and luxury he held constantly before my eyes, I submitted. He made me his cat’s-paw to perpetrate crimes which he was too great a coward to commit himself, and when he found himself cornered he exposed me in order to deprive me of liberty and life. Had I never met the mean, contemptible scoundrel, I should have led as blameless a life as ordinary women, and remained the dutiful wife of Percy Willoughby, notwithstanding his ill-treatment.”
Across her aching forehead she passed her hand quickly, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Bah!” she continued, with bitterness. “What’s the use of thinking of things as they might have been? Victor’s companionship made me callous, and I stained my hands with crime in order to gain riches. I abandoned every womanly feeling and instinct, and carried out the plot without regard for those who stood in my way. Therefore, there are no extenuating circumstances. No. I staked my life upon the game, but, my usual luck having deserted me, I have lost—lost irretrievably. I must pay.”
Her frenzy of passion had been succeeded by a calm thoughtful mood, and she was silently reviewing her past, recognising for the first time how vile and hideous were her sins.
“God,” she cried, in an intense, pitiful voice, “I would give all—everything I possess—if it were possible to atone—if I could obtain Hugh’s forgiveness! He loved me so dearly, lavished all his affection and money upon me, and closed his ears to the truth, which he thought calumnies, yet—I killed his brother—stabbed him—afterwards sending Hugh himself to penal servitude. And for what? Merely for my own aggrandisement—in order that I might become mistress of this place, and live in luxury and ease. It was a foul, horrible plot,” she added, shuddering. “Repentance is useless, forgiveness hopeless; I can only—die—die!”
As she uttered these words her eyes fell upon the davenport which stood on the opposite side of the room. A thought suddenly occurred to her. She crossed the boudoir, and, seating herself, took up a pen and commenced to write rapidly.
The letter was long and rambling, devoid of any endearing terms. It commenced with an admission of her marriage with Willoughby and the subsequent divorce, followed by a full confession of the murder of Douglas Trethowen. She wrote:
I was walking along Pall Mall alone, about ten o’clock at night, when I encountered him, not by accident but by design. He quickly recognised me, and appeared pleased that we had met. For nearly a quarter of an hour we stood talking, until he told me he had an appointment at Liverpool Street Station. At that moment an omnibus slackened speed opposite us to allow two men to alight. I suggested we should go to the City together in the ’bus, and we entered it. There was no conductor, and we were alone. Scarcely had we entered the vehicle when his manner suddenly changed, and he spoke of the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann. His attitude was threatening, and he said that now I was there with him without any chance of escape, he intended to give me up to the police as a murderess when the conveyance arrived at its destination. I grew frightened, for I was convinced from his manner that he meant what he said. It was not by accident, but by intention, that I had met him, and I was fully prepared. I saw the time had come, and, drawing from my pocket the handkerchief I had prepared, I soon quieted him. Then I struck the blow. I drove the knife in hard; it killed him. It all happened in a few moments, and while the omnibus was still in motion and about to enter the Strand I jumped out quickly and made my escape.
The remainder of the letter was a confused and disjointed declaration of love, combined with a penitent entreaty for forgiveness, without any attempt at palliation.
Blotting the tears that had fallen and blurred the words as she wrote, she placed it in an envelope and addressed it with a nervous, shaky hand “To Hugh.”
“Ah, well,” she murmured, sighing heavily.
Again she opened the davenport, and from under some papers took a little morocco case. Rigid and determined, she rose, more calm than before. Her lips were thin and white, her teeth tightly clenched, and in her eyes was a fixed, stony look. Walking with firm steps to the door, she locked it, afterwards flinging herself upon a chair beside the small bamboo table in the centre of the room.
Overwhelmed by despair, she had no longer any desire for life. Insanity, begotten of despondency and fear, prompted with headlong wilfulness, an ardent longing for death.
Opening the case, she extracted from its blue velvet interior a tiny silver hypodermic syringe and a small glass phial. Examining the latter in the dim light, she saw it was labelled “Chloral.” This was not the drug she desired. She was in the habit of injecting this for the purpose of soothing her nerves, and knew that it was too weak to produce fatal effect.
Her breath came and went in short uneven gasps, while her half-uncovered breast heaved and fell with the excitement of her temporary madness.
Staggering to her feet, she returned swiftly to the davenport, from which, after a few moments’ search, she abstracted a small dark-blue bottle containing morphia, afterwards reseating herself, and, uncorking it, placed it upon the table.
Taking up the syringe, she tried its needle-point with her finger. It pricked her, and she cast it from her with an exclamation of repugnance.
“Dieu!” she gasped hoarsely. “I have no courage. Bah! I am still a coward!”
Yet, as it lay upon the table she fixed her strained eyes upon it, for as an instrument of death it possessed a fatal fascination for her.
Slowly she stretched forth her hand, and again took it between her cold fingers. Then, with a sudden resolve, she filled it to its utmost capacity with the drug from the bottle.
“A certain remedy for mental ailments,” she remarked to herself, smiling bitterly as she held it up contemplatively. “Who will regret my death or shed a tear? No one. I have no adieux to make—none. As a friendless, sinful wretch, I adopt the preferable mode of speedy death rather than undergo the ordeal of a criminal trial, with its inevitable result. I would live and atone for the past if I could, but that is impossible. Ah! too late, alas! Pierre has forsaken me, and I am alone. Forgiveness! Bah! A mere mockery to set the conscience at rest. What use? I—I can never be forgiven—never!”
While speaking she had, with a feeble, trembling hand, applied the sharp point of the syringe to her bare white arm. Unflinchingly she ran the needle deep into the flesh, and thrice slowly emptied the liquid into the puncture.
She watched the bead of dark blood oozing from the wound when she withdrew the instrument, and quickly covered it with her thumb in order that the injection should be fully absorbed in her veins.
“Ah!” she gasped, in sudden terror a moment later, as the syringe dropped from her nerveless grasp, “I—I feel so giddy! I can’t breathe! I’m choking! The poison’s killing me. Ha, ha, I’m dying!” she laughed hysterically. “They thought to triumph over me, the vultures! but, after all, I’ve cheated them. They’ll find that Valérie Duvauchel was neither coward nor fool when run to earth!”
Springing to her feet she clutched convulsively at her throat, tearing the flesh with her nails in a horrible paroxysm of pain.
The injection had swiftly accomplished its work.
“Pierre! Pierre!” she articulated with difficulty, in a fierce, hoarse whisper, “where are you? Ah! I see! You—you’ve returned. Why did you leave me in their merciless clutches when you knew that—that I always—loved you? Kiss me—mon cher! Kiss me—darling,—kiss me, Pierre—”
The words choked her.
Blindly she staggered forward a few steps, vainly endeavouring to steady herself.
With a short, shrill scream she wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot, then tottered, and fell backwards, inert, and lifeless!
A dead, unbroken silence followed. The spirit of Valérie Duvauchel had departed, leaving the body as that of a dishevelled fallen angel.
In a few moments the strains of another plaintive waltz penetrated into the chamber of death, forming a strange incongruous dirge.
When, a few hours later, the yellow winter’s dawn crept in through the window, the dull, uncertain light fell upon the calm, upturned countenance.
It was beautiful—very beautiful. Before the last breath had departed, the drawn, haggard features had relaxed and resumed their enchanting smile.
Yet there was something in the expression of the blanched face which cast a chill upon the admiration of its loveliness—the brand of guilt was there.