Their parting.... Ah! what pen could do justice to their parting, when,
upon a certain fateful morning, some eight days subsequently to the
decision of Monseigneur, Dunoisse tore himself away from Henriette
and his revived and radiant happiness, and left Paris, _en route_ for
Eastern Roumelia, and the debatable ground one day to be contested by
the forces of the Sultan and the Czar.
Not without pith of meaning is the old saw that warns the traveler
never, once having started, to retrace his steps. But the overworked
pointsman’s blunder that sent the engine of the South-Eastern express
crashing into the rear-wagon of a goods-train outside the station of
Joigny--a disaster without resultant loss of life to any portion of the
human freight--must be held responsible for Dunoisse’s return.
His route had officially been pricked out _viâ_ Marseilles and
Constantinople. Owing to the lapse of hours that would intervene
before the next Southward-going mail could be boarded, the bi-monthly
steamer plying between the ports above named must certainly sail
without Dunoisse. Somewhat bruised and shaken by the shock of the
accident, and furthermore possessed with an intense nostalgia for
Paris and Henriette, her lover yielded to the tempting, urgent voice;
left his baggage--soldierly in its economy of bulk--in charge of the
officials at Joigny--and burdened with nothing more cumbrous than a
traveling-bag--took the next train for home.
* * * * *
The city clocks were striking twelve when he left the terminus of the
Rue Mazas and rattled in a hired _coupé_ over the Bridge of Austerlitz.
It was a windless night of numbing cold, and the long double line of
the quays, and the sluggish river winding between them, and the arcs
of the bridges spanning the wide, turbid flood, were only indicated by
their lamps, twinkling brightly as a jeweler’s emeralds and topazes
out of wrappings of fleecy cotton-wool. No bivouac-fires reddened
the foggy sky; no troops occupied the public places or patroled the
streets; no blood-bedabbled corpses were being carted to the cemetery;
yet Dunoisse was irresistibly reminded of the night of his return
from London, on the morning that had followed the master-stroke of
Monseigneur. Perhaps that association threw the first splash of cold
water on his enterprise.... But he told himself for the hundredth time
that he was going back to Henriette, who loved him; and that her joy at
the unexpected sight of him would clear away all shadow of doubt and
misunderstanding from between them for evermore.
It seemed a long drive. You are never in such a red-hot hurry as when
you are speeding to the wreck and ruin of an illusion upon the jagged
rocks of a test. But at last it was over. He dismissed his cab at
the street-corner, in the interests of the joyful surprise he had in
view--and reached the familiar gates on foot. No need to use the little
pass-key, carried in Dunoisse’s waistcoat-pocket, and admitting by the
smaller portal, framed in the corner of the larger one, for--thanks
to some neglect of the portress--the little door stood ajar; it swung
inwards at the first touch.... And thus Dunoisse stepped noiselessly
into the dark, foggy courtyard, passed under the tall, stately,
familiar portico--conjectured rather than seen in the draping veil of
fog--and drew out the latch-key of the de Roux’s hall-door. But that
door was also open--upon this night of wonders every obstacle seemed
to dissolve like foam or mist-wreath under the touch of the man who
was hurrying to prove his mistress faithful. For, stripped of all
ornament or pretense, you have in these five plain words the reason of
Dunoisse’s return.
The servants had gone to bed, or had been given leave to spend the
night elsewhere. A small lamp burned feebly in the deserted vestibule,
like Faith trying to keep itself alive in a soul that has learned to
doubt. The drawing-rooms were in darkness, their wood fires mere cores
of red under gray crusts of ashes. Beyond, the green-and-gold boudoir,
with a brilliant fire and many lights, gleamed like some transcendent
emerald at the end of a tunnel of ebony blackness. She was not there.
But the door of the bedroom that was fragrant and pink as the heart of
a blush-rose--that stood a little ajar....
Moving with long, swift, eager strides over the velvety carpets,
Dunoisse reached the open door of the bedroom. With a heart that
throbbed as madly as on the first night that had seen him cross its
threshold, he looked in, and saw Henriette.
In sharpest contrast with the brilliancy of the green-and-gold boudoir,
the rose-colored bedroom, save for the blazing wood-billets that
dispensed a dancing light and a delicious warmth, was all in shadow.
At an angle, facing towards the fire, stood a low, broad ebony couch
without a back or foot-piece, covered in rose-color matching the
shade of the draperies of the windows, the walls, and the tent that
in the graceful fashion of the era, sheltered the bed. And Henriette
lay--in beauty revealed rather than covered by a thin diaphanous robe
of lawn and lace--outstretched upon the couch beside the fire, her
shoulders raised upon its rose-colored cushions, her lovely head thrown
back and drooping as in the chaste abandonment of sleep, toward the
shoulder whose curving whiteness shone pearly between the tresses of
night-black hair that streamed across it and downwards; partly veiling
the white arm, and the delicate hand that rested, palm upwards, on the
leopard-skin that was spread before the hearth.
Surely, surely, she was very pale.... But never had she seemed more
alluringly, irresistibly fair in the eyes that drank her in, and could
not slake their thirst in gazing. And surely she was very still....
The colorless lips, parted in a faint, mysterious smile, gave forth
no sighing breath; the pulses at the base of the rounded throat did
not throb perceptibly--the full, goddess-like bosom that gleamed
through the mist-thin fabric of her robe did not rise or fall with the
deep even respiration of natural, wholesome slumber. But not until
Dunoisse had crossed to her side--bent down and set his burning kiss
upon those smiling lips, did he realize that they were icy cold; that
the teeth were rigidly clenched behind them, and that the half-open
eyes were fixed in a glassy stare. And in the poignant horror of
the discovery he cried her name aloud, and snatched the inert form
into his embrace--lavishing frantic caresses and adoring words upon
her--imploring her to revive ... to look at him ... to answer ... if
only by a sigh.
In vain his prayers. The silent heart against which his cheek was
pressed gave back no throb; not the slightest answering pressure
might be won from the nerveless arms he laced about his neck--not
the faintest nerve-thrill told of life in the beautiful body, whose
most secret chords were so well used to respond to the urgent call of
Passion. She was cold, white and silent as the dead.
Could this be Death indeed?... Dunoisse drove the haunting query
desperately from him. He remembered with relief a flask of cognac that
he carried in an inner pocket of his traveling-cloak; and tried, out
of the silver thimble-cup that was screwed as a cap over the stopper,
to pour a little of the spirit between the small, set teeth. When her
head rolled helplessly on his supporting arm--when the liquid, finding
no entrance, flowed away at the corners of the pale, stiff lips, adding
a coarse spirituous tang to the delicately-fragrant atmosphere of the
bedroom, the dreadful doubt assailed Dunoisse more fiercely. Baffled,
sick with despair, he laid her back upon the couch, freed himself
tenderly from the long strands of night-black hair that clung to his
rough traveling clothes and tangled in his buttons--struck a match and
lighted, with what a shaking hand!--the rose-tinted wax candles upheld
by porcelain Cupids on the mantelshelf. Holding one of the candlesticks
on high, he sent a questioning glance about in search of smelling-salts
or some more powerful restorative. And not until then did the tell-tale
disorder of the place yield up its ugly secret. He knew all.
The disorder of the luxurious bed ... the little table of two covers
that stood near its foot, bearing a plate of caviare sandwiches
partly consumed, a cut _pâté_ and two champagne-bottles, one prone and
empty, the other partly full, gave testimony there was no disproving.
Even without the clinching evidence furnished by the heavy, fur-lined
overcoat that sprawled over the back of a chair--the masculine stock
that curled about an ivory hand, loaded with rings of price--the black
satin cravat that lay upon the lace-draped toilette table, its twin
diamond pins, linked by a chain of gold, winking and gleaming like
mocking goblin-eyes. And was not that a man’s white glove, lying where
it had been dropped upon the rose-colored carpet?... Mechanically
Dunoisse crossed the room and picked it up. And it was no glove, but
a crumpled note, penned in violet ink, in Henriette’s clear, delicate
characteristic hand, on her white, satin-striped paper. And it told
all, crudely and without reserve, to the poor dupe whom it flouted and
mocked.
“UNRULY MONSTER,--
“Yes! ’tis true! Don Quixote has departed. Naturally I am
inconsolable!--but since you profess yourself convinced of the
contrary, you may come at the usual hour. The servants will be
disposed of--the doors will be open.... When we meet, perhaps I may
be----