Alone in her dainty little boudoir, Valerie 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.
Valerie 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! The _lunette_!" 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 Valerie 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 Valerie 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.