Bending over, her lips met mine in one fierce passionate caress.
Next second we were startled by a strange noise, sounding suspiciously
like a footstep upon the gravel. We listened, but the sound was not
repeated.
"Hark!" she whispered anxiously. "If my husband should find you here,
would it not compromise me?"
With a force I should never have suspected, she led me to the door, and,
after giving me a gentle push, locked it behind me.
"Adieu!" I murmured, as tenderly as I could.
There was no answer.
Through the keyhole I could see Mariette kneeling before a crucifix on
the opposite wall.
Then I turned and went forth into the darkness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning was grey and dispiriting; the chill wind whirled the dead
leaves in my path, and moaned through the bare branches as I walked up
to the door of the cottage. My mind was perturbed by thoughts of what
happiness might have resulted had I been true to the woman who loved me.
I had spent a restless night at a roadside inn. Her misery tortured
me, and, despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to again proffer
assistance.
With trepidation I approached the door of the humble abode and knocked.
No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent.
About to repeat the summons, I noticed the door was ajar. Pushing it
slowly open, I entered, at the same time uttering her name.
As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room, I at first saw nothing, but
on glancing round the opposite side of the table, my eyes encountered a
terrible sight.
Stretched upon the floor, Mariette was lying partly dressed, the pale
light falling upon her upturned features. The cheeks and lips were
bloodless; the eyes, wide-open, were staring wildly into space with a
look of indescribable horror.
Falling upon my knees, I touched her face with my hand.
It was cold as marble. _She was dead_!
In her white breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the
cruel wound the blood had oozed.
She had been murdered!
The recollection of the events immediately following this ghastly
discovery is but faint. I have a hazy belief that my mind became
temporarily unhinged, that I left the place without informing any one of
the tragedy; then, walking many miles through the forest, I reached a
railway station, whence I returned to Brussels.
The one thing most in my mind was the terrible look of blank despair in
the glazed eyes. I have never forgotten it. I shall carry its
remembrance with me to the grave.
That awful look of reproach has ever since been uppermost in my memory.
Try how I will, I cannot rid myself of its hideous presence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A bright, crisp morning in December.
Hurrying down the Montagne de la Cour, where I chanced to have business,
I came face to face with Clementine Sucaret, who, warmly clad in furs,
was enjoying that harmless pastime so dear to the feminine heart--
inspecting shop windows.
We had bid each other farewell three years before. She then left
Brussels to fulfil engagements as a dancer in London and Paris, and
since I heard nothing of her.
Greeting me with the same winsome smile and merry manner as of old, she
inquired whither I was going. When I explained that my business was
important, and did not admit of delay, she requested that she might
accompany me, at the same time inviting me to _dejeuner_ with her
afterwards, an arrangement to which I consented without reluctance.
As we walked together, she commenced describing her adventures and
successes, declaring that, after all, it was pleasant to return among
old friends and cherished recollections. I was well aware at what she
hinted when she said this, for I was one of her oldest friends, and had
known her when she was only a _figurante_ at the Theatre de la Monnaie,
and lived with her decrepit and bibulous old father, a _concierge_, in
the Rue du Trone. It was then that her cheerful, good-natured
disposition and handsome face had fascinated me, causing me to forsake
Mariette.
The thought inflicted a sharp twinge of remorse, for the tragedy in the
little cottage was still fresh in my memory.
Having left her for a moment while I made a call, I rejoined her.
Laughing and chattering, she chaffingly alluded to our former
attachment, and pouted in feigned displeasure at what she termed my
inconstancy.
Down the Rue de la Regence we had sauntered slowly, and were passing the
imposing facade of the Palais de Justice, when suddenly she stopped,
and, uttering an exclamation of surprise at the proportions of the vast
building which had been completed in her absence, requested me to take
her to see the interior.
Mounting the broad flight of granite steps, we passed into the
magnificent marble hall.
Strange how Fate is constantly our mistress and rules our every action.
We had crossed under the gilded dome and were about to enter one of the
court-rooms, when my eye caught a large printed notice fixed to the
wall.