Sylvie shuddered as with icy cold . . . a darkness seemed to overwhelm
her . . . she staggered a little, and Ruspardi caught her,
wondering--at the lightness and delicacy and beauty of her, as he
assisted Madame Bozier to lead her to a deep fauteuil where she sank
down, trembling in every nerve.
"And--he is dead?" she asked mechanically.
Ruspardi bowed a grave assent. She paused a moment--then forced herself
to speak again.
"How did it happen?"
In brief, concise words Ruspardi gave the account of the quarrel with
Miraudin,--and Sylvie shrank back as though she had received a blow
when she heard that her name had been the cause of the dispute.
"And this morning, hearing no news," continued Ruspardi, "I made
enquiries at the theatre. There I found everything in confusion;
Miraudin and a soubrette named Jeanne Richaud, had left Rome the
previous evening so the box-keeper said, and there was no news of
either of them beyond a note from the girl saying she had returned
alone to Paris by the first morning train. Nothing had been heard of
Miraudin himself;--I therefore, knowing all the circumstances, drove
out to the Campagna by the Porte Pia, the way that Miraudin had gone,
and the way I bade the Marquis follow;--but on the Ponte Nomentano I
met some of the Miserecordia carrying two corpses on the same
bier,--two corpses so strangely alike that they might almost have been
brothers!--they were the bodies of the Marquis Fontenelle
and,--Miraudin!"
Sylvie uttered a low cry and covered her face with her hands.
"Miraudin!" exclaimed Madame Bozier in horrified tones. "Miraudin! Is
he killed also?"
"Yes, Madame! Both shots must have been fired with deadly aim. They had
no seconds. Miraudin had hired a common fiacre to escape in from the
city, and the police will offer a reward for the discovery of the
driver. My horse, which my unfortunate friend Fontenelle rode, is gone,
and if it could be discovered, its possessor might furnish a clue;--but
I imagine it will be difficult, if not impossible to trace the
witnesses of the combat. The woman Richaud is on her way to Paris. But
by this time all Rome knows of the death of Miraudin; and in a few
hours all the world will know!"
"And what of the Marquis Fontenelle?" asked Madame Bozier.
"Madama, I posted all the letters he entrusted to my charge. The one I
have brought to the Contessa was enclosed in an envelope to me and
marked 'To be personally delivered in case of my death.' But among the
letters for the post was one to the Marquis's only sister, the Abbess
of a convent in Paris--she will probably claim her brother's remains."
He was silent. After a pause Sylvie rose unsteadily, and detached a
cluster of violets she wore at her neck.
"Will you--" her voice faltered.
But Ruspardi understood, and taking the flowers, respectfully kissed
the little hand that gave them.
"They shall be buried with him," he said. "His hand was clenched in
death on a small knot of lace--you perhaps might recognise
it,--yes?--so!--it shall be left as it was found."
And,--his melancholy errand being done,--he bowed profoundly once more,
and retired.
Sylvie gazed around her vaguely,--the letter of her dead admirer
grasped in her hand,--and his former letter, proposing marriage, lying
still open on the table. Her old gouvernante watched her anxiously, the
tears rolling down her cheeks.
"You are crying, Katrine!" she said, "And yet you knew him very
little,--he never loved you! I wish--I wish MY tears would come! But
they are all here--aching and hurting me--"and she pressed her hand to
her heart--"You see--when one is a woman and has been loved by a man,
one cannot but feel sorry--for such an end! You see he was not
altogether cruel!--he defended my name--and he has died for my sake!
For my sake!--Oh, Katrine! For MY sake! So he DID love me--at the last!
. . . and I--I--Oh, Katrine!--I wish--I wish the tears would come!"
And as she spoke she reeled--and uttering a little cry like that of a
wounded bird, dropped senseless.