Part 52 (1/2)
”I deemed that by striking the blow I should be rendering her a service as well as securing our mutual felicity. I did not know that I was preparing a living torture for myself, that I was resigning every hope, joy, and sentiment that makes life precious. No; in my frame of mind, with my intense hatred excited by the words of the woman I loved, I thought naught of the enormity of the crime, and only regarded the deed as a justifiable means of ridding her of an obnoxious and unholy tie.
She planned the crime with care and forethought, even arranging the day, the hour, the moment, that it should be committed. But there--why should I blame her when it is I who was the coward, the criminal? You will understand when I say that at ten o'clock one night I softly ascended the stairs from the boulevard, and cautiously entered Nicholson's apartments by means of a key provided by Valerie. Pa.s.sing along a short, dark pa.s.sage, I saw a light coming through the c.h.i.n.ks of the door which led into the front room that he used as a library and office. In this room was the safe in which he kept his gems, cunningly concealed behind a mock bookcase, so that anyone entering saw nothing of the great green iron doors with s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s handles. Scarcely daring to breathe, I pushed open the door of this room, and saw my victim seated at his writing-table with his back towards me. The cosy apartment was in comparative darkness, except for the shaded reading-lamp which shed a subdued light in the vicinity of the table.
My rival had evidently only just come in, for he had not removed his Inverness coat, and was apparently engrossed in a sheet of accounts he had spread out before him. At first I faltered, but my hand struck the handle of the long, keen, surgeon's knife with which I had armed myself.
Its touch gave me courage; in a moment I remembered all that I should gain by striking the fatal blow. It was enough! I crept up behind him stealthily, and, lifting the knife, buried it almost up to the hilt in his back! He fell forward dead, without a groan.”
The artist sat pale and trembling, with a clammy moisture upon his brow.
”Only for a moment I stood regarding my foul handiwork, then I turned and made my way cautiously out, descending to the boulevard and walking as fast as I could to a small cafe on the other side of the Seine, where I spent the remainder of the evening in drinking cognac.”
”And what of Valerie?” asked Hugh, eager to learn the whole of this almost incredible story. ”Did she keep her promise?”
”No, curse her! Two days later, when all Paris was discussing what the papers called the `Mystery of the Boulevard Haussmann.' I met her, and asked her to redeem her promise and become mine. But she only laughed and treated me with scorn, urging me to leave the city, and announcing her own departure, saying that she was afraid that the police would ascertain her relations with the murdered man, and interrogate her. In vain I implored her to allow me to accompany her, but she refused, and with a cold, formal farewell left me. The sudden change which had come over her was extraordinary, as likewise was the mysterious manner in which she afterwards disappeared. With a broken heart and a heavy burden of guilt, I, too, fled from Paris--anywhere--everywhere.
By-and-by I found consolation in my Art--but no ambition. There was a gloomy, morbid pleasure in trying to catch and reproduce those divine lineaments which hid so bad a spirit. And so I wandered from place to place in Italy, in Spain, in Germany, until I returned to London.”
”When did you next meet her?” inquired Trethowen.
”Though I heard of her, discovered further proofs of her infamy, and ascertained that at the time she was pretending to love me she was living under the protection of Victor Berard, a notorious thief, I never set eyes upon her until we met her together that afternoon at Eastbourne. Then I found that she had a.s.sumed the name of Dedieu instead of Duvauchel, and that she had managed to acquire sufficient money to live in affluence.”
”But why did you not warn me?” asked Hugh, with bitter reproach.
”I told you all I dared. As soon as she knew that you admired her she came to me, and threatened that if I divulged anything she would give me up to the police. Therefore I was powerless to save you, and could only give vague warnings which were worse than useless. Don't you think that the knowledge of your blind implicit trust in such a woman caused me anxiety, especially when I knew that ruin only could be the ultimate result?”
The men looked at one another earnestly; each pitied the other.
”Ah! I understand Jack,” exclaimed Trethowen. ”Your explanation shows that you did your best to prevent me from falling a victim. We have both been duped; but she shall not go unpunished.”
”What! You mean to denounce her?” he cried, in alarm.
”Why not?”
”Because--because--I am a murderer, and she will have me arrested and tried for taking the life of her lover! Cannot you see that for my own safety we must preserve silence?”
Trethowen started as this truth flashed across his mind. He had not before thought of that contingency, and with a sinking heart was compelled to admit the truth of the a.s.sertion.
The fetters of matrimony which bound him to this woman were irrevocably welded around his life, unless, perchance, by divorce he could free himself. The ”gentleman” of whom the hall-porter had spoken, who was he?
”I have a strong suspicion that it was by her plotting you were sent to New Caledonia,” continued Egerton. ”Depend upon it, sooner or later, we shall discover that `La Belle Hirondelle' has had a hand in it.”
”What causes you to think so?” his companion asked, in amazement.
”It was to her interest that you should be imprisoned. When you were safely out of the way, with a long sentence before you, her course was quite clear.”
”How?”
”Simply this: A man who died at a hotel in Antwerp was identified as yourself, a death certificate was obtained in your name, and--”
”And what then?” cried Hugh, astonished.
”Your will was proved.”
”My will?”