Part 51 (1/2)
”It is useless to deny it,” interrupted Hugh coolly. ”Your villainy has been exposed to me. Perhaps in your endeavour to prove your innocence you will disclaim acquaintance with Victor Berard, with `La Pet.i.te Hirondelle' or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who--”
The colour left the artist's countenance at the mention of the latter name.
”Stop!” he cried hoa.r.s.ely, clutching his companion's arm, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. ”What is this you say? What do you allege?”
”That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder in the Boulevard Haussmann!”
Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixed upon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as if the words had not disturbed him.
”How have you discovered that, pray?” he asked, with a calmness that was forced.
”Berard has confessed.”
”G.o.d! Hugh! Then--_then you know my secret_!” he gasped hoa.r.s.ely, looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.
”I do--at least, a portion of it,” was the calm reply. ”But you and I, Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek an explanation from your own lips.”
The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps, endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raised his head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.
”I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence,” he said in a low, distinct voice.
”I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak.”
”I do not doubt you--I only doubt myself.”
And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands clasped behind him.
Hugh waited.
”I know you will loathe me--that you will never again clasp my hand in friends.h.i.+p,” said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitation in his manner which increased as he went on. ”You may tell me so, too, if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circ.u.mstances in the crime which I committed--none--”
”Hus.h.!.+” cried Trethowen. ”Don't speak so loud. We may be overheard.”
Heedless of the warning, the artist continued--
”Does it not seem absurd that a man's whole life and ambition should be overthrown by a mere pa.s.sion for a woman?” he said bitterly. ”Yet this has been my case. You remember that soon after we first became acquainted I went to study in Paris--but there, perhaps Berard has told you?”
”No; I wish to hear the true facts,” replied Hugh. ”Tell me all.”
”Ah! the story is not an enticing one to relate,” the artist resumed, with a subdued, feverish agitation. ”There were three of us--Holt, Glanville, and myself--and in the Quartier Latin we led a reckless existence, with feast and jubilee one day, and starvation the next. We were a free-and-easy trio in our _atelier_ on the Quai Montabello, happy in to-day and heedless of to-morrow, caring nothing for those bonds of conventionality which degrade men into money-grubs. I had freedom, liberty, happiness, until one night at a _bal masque_ at the Bullier I met a woman. Ah, I see you are smiling already. Well, smile on. I would laugh were it not that I feel the pain.”
There was an intense bitterness in his tone, which showed how very keenly he felt.
”Nay,” interrupted Hugh coolly, ”you mistake the meaning of my smile.”
”No matter; you have every reason to smile, for it was contemptible weakness, and that weakness was mine. I had seen many women whom the world called beauties, and I could look upon them with indifference. At last--”
He paused; a lump rose in his throat, and his hands were clasped behind him convulsively.
”At last,” he went on, with a fierce pa.s.sion--”at last I saw her--our eyes met. It was no fancy, no boyish imagination--it was reality. I stood before her, dumb, trembling, spellbound. I could not speak, I could not move, the power of life seemed to have gone from me.”