Chapter Thirty Two. Gabrielle Debriège.

A few moments’ pause, and the artist resumed.

“She had admitted that she loved me,” he said, in a low quivering tone of anguish. “But the fact of her relations with the rich Englishman, Nicholson, was forced on me with proof so damning that I could not shut my eyes, even despite myself.”

Pressing his hands upon his brow as if to stay the wild throbbing of his brain, he sat in dejection, while his breath came with difficulty. The confession was wrung from his heart, and the haggard expression of anxiety and despair upon his face told of the mental agony it caused him.

“My jealous nature somehow prompted me to seek acquaintance with this man. Unknown to her I obtained an introduction to him, and with my fellow-student, Glanville, spent several evenings in his rooms in the Boulevard Haussmann. We drank, smoked and played cards together. He and I often dined at the Café Riche, and gradually I ingratiated myself with him. I really don’t know why I did so; it must have been due to the devil’s promptings. Holt and Glanville admired her, and I was flattered by their envy at the favour she bestowed upon me. Ah! poor fools, they did not know the blackness of her heart. Thus things went on for six months. Though I never looked upon Valérie with other thoughts than those of pure, honest love, we met almost daily, sometimes walking in the Bois, and frequently taking long excursions into the country, to Argenteuil, to Lagny, or Choisy-le-Roi, where we could be alone to indulge in those confidential conversations in which lovers delight.”

“Was she aware that you had discovered her intrigue with this man Nicholson?” asked Hugh moodily.

“Yes. One day we had taken the train to Vincennes, and we were walking back through the wood near the Porte de Picpus, when I taxed her with it. At first she denied it; but recognising that I knew too much, burst into tears, and admitted all. Imploring pity, she kissed my hand, assuring me that she had been the victim of circumstances, that she hated him and loved me alone. My first impulse was to abandon her, and never look upon her face again. Yet, how could I? She was a woman after all, and that cold, calm exterior which chilled one, despite her beauty, might be only the mask of some fierce inward aching. She was a woman, with a woman’s heart, a woman’s sympathies and yearnings. I felt confident that she was bearing some heavy burden of guilt or sorrow, and that with agony she wore a mask that hid her secret from the world.”

“A pity that, under such circumstances, you did not put an end to the acquaintanceship,” Trethowen observed, without raising his head.

“Ah!” he sighed, “I was like you yourself have been, powerless in the influence of her presence. I knew I was a miserable fool, undeserving of pity; I knew that it was worse than madness to love her—yet still I loved. I felt that she had been wronged, and sympathised with her. On the one side my reason—calm, cold, and just—pointed to the insanity of my affection; and on the other my heart and Soul. Under the attraction of her beauty, dragged me towards her. I was determined to conquer; nevertheless, when she was near me I was a mere automaton, moving as she indicated, and executing her every desire. It was this inability to resist her that caused me to commit the crime—the crime of murder.”

“Then you admit you stained your hands with blood?” Trethowen exclaimed anxiously.

“Yes, yes; but don’t shrink from me,” he cried, in a beseeching tone. “It was for her sake—for Valérie’s sake. Prompted by the beautiful woman, whose loveliness maddened me, I took my rival’s life. You will keep my secret, I know, so I will tell you how it came about. We were seated late one night in the Chat Noir, when she told me she had discovered that Nicholson and I were friends. I was not surprised, for I had anticipated that sooner or later she would find this out: but in the conversation which ensued I reproached her for continuing her intrigue with him. The words I uttered appeared to cause her a fit of remorse, for she protested that it was through no fault of hers, but under absolute compulsion. She declared that this man was in possession of a secret which, if divulged, would ruin her, and hence he held power over her which made it imperative that she should continue the relationship even against her will. We went out and wandered along the deserted streets. With such terrible earnestness did she speak, entreating pity, and asserting her affection for me, that, like a blind, trusting imbecile that I was, I believed her. Indeed, it was evident that whatever love she had entertained for Nicholson had turned to hate. The remembrance of that night is so confused that I can scarce recollect the words I uttered. However, it was she who suggested the crime, for she assured me that if he died she would be willing to marry me. What greater incentive could a jealous lover have to kill the man who barred his happiness? In the few days that followed I tried to tear myself away from her; yet still I was drawn towards her, and at last Valérie—your wife—and I sat together one night actually plotting his death. Blindly I resigned myself to a fate worse than that of the doomed. I promised to murder him!”

He spoke in low, hoarse tones, and gazed around the dimly-lit studio with a bewildered, frightened expression in his haggard eyes.

Trethowen stood by him in silent wonder, waiting for him to continue.

“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 Valérie. Passing along a short, dark passage, I saw a light coming through the chinks 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 shining brass 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 café on the other side of the Seine, where I spent the remainder of the evening in drinking cognac.”

“And what of Valérie?” 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 Bérard, a notorious thief, I never set eyes upon her until we met her together that afternoon at Eastbourne. Then I found that she had assumed 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 assertion.

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?”

“Yes; you left everything unreservedly to your wife, and consequently she has obtained possession of it.”

“How did you know?” asked the other, dumbfounded.

The artist, without replying, went to his secretaire and took out a newspaper, which he handed to his companion.

Then he flung himself into his chair again, and sat staring blankly into the fire, his face wearing an expression of abject despair.

As Hugh read the paragraph indicated, he uttered an imprecation under his breath, and savagely flung the paper from him. Presently he placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, exclaiming in a sad, sympathetic, voice:

“Jack, forgive me! I have judged you unjustly, for before my marriage I was jealous of you, and from the day I found Valérie here in your studio I confess I distrusted; now, however, I find you are my companion in misfortune—that you have also been duped by her. I clearly understand your inability to warn me by relating the terrible story I have just heard from your lips; I know you were powerless to prevent me falling into her cunningly-baited trap. The discovery of her infamy and exposure of her real character is, indeed, a cruel shock to me. Nevertheless, why should our friendship be any the less sincere? Come, let’s shake hands.”

“No, Hugh,” he replied despondently, shaking his head. “I’m unworthy to grasp the hand of any honest man.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a murderer.”

“M’sieur Jack does not speak the truth,” interrupted a shrill, musical voice in French.

Both men started and turned in astonishment. Standing in the deep shadow at the opposite end of the studio was a tall female form, which had apparently been concealed behind a large canvas fixed upon an easel. She had been admitted by Mrs O’Shea, and her presence had remained unnoticed by the men, so engrossed had they been in their conversation.

They glanced at one another apprehensively, and as she advanced the artist sprang to his feet in indignation and alarm.

A moment later, when the lamplight revealed her features, he drew back in amazement.

“You—Gabrielle?” he cried.

“Oui, I am that unfortunate personage,” she replied, with an air of nonchalance. “And, moreover, I have been an unintentional eavesdropper.”

“You heard my confession?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well—yes. It was an interesting story, yet scarcely novel—at least, to one who is better acquainted with the real facts than yourself.”

“Then you knew of my crime?”

“Yes. A combination of circumstances revealed to me who it was who committed the murder.”

“Ah! It was I—I who killed him,” he cried wildly, glaring with haggard eyes.

Hugh stood staring at the strange visitor. Amazed at her sudden appearance, he was speechless. About twenty-eight, tall, dark, with features that were decidedly foreign, she was well-dressed, wearing a smart little sealskin cape, the collar of which was turned up around her neck, while upon her head was perched a coquettish little bonnet.

Jack Egerton recovered himself quickly, and, apologising for neglecting to introduce them, presented her to his friend as Mademoiselle Gabrielle Debriège. Then offering her his chair, he stood before her, and commenced a series of inquiries as to her movements since they last met, and what had induced her to seek him.

“This world is a very little place,” she replied in broken English, and with a winning smile. “An artist is one of the easiest men to find. Let’s see, I believe it’s five years ago since we last saw one another. On the Pont de la Concorde, if I remember aright, and on the morning you left Paris so suddenly without bidding us farewell, you—”

“How is Glanville?” interrupted the artist. “Have you met him since he forsook the Quartier Latin?”

“Forsook! Bah!” exclaimed the voluble Frenchwoman, shrugging her shoulders deprecatingly. Without answering the question, she continued: “At the time your departure caused some surprise among us, but we little dreamed that you had any connection with the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann. It was only afterwards that the reason of your flight was discovered—”

“By whom?” he asked anxiously.

“By me alone. Never fear, I shall act with circumspection,” she added, noticing his look of anxiety and alarm. “My life has been as adventurous as yours, and since that occurrence I have learnt wisdom. I have sought you for two reasons.”

“What are they?”

“Firstly, your friend here, M’sieur Trethowen, and yourself have both been the victims of Valérie Duvauchel. You drank of her love philtre, and succumbed to her beauty. You desire revenge—eh?”

Hugh bent his head in acquiescence.

“I, too, have been cruelly wronged by her. I have waited long in order to repay the debt I owe, and the hour of her retribution is now at hand.”

“What has she done to you?” asked Hugh anxiously.

“I will explain everything when in your presence, I meet her face to face. Till then I keep my own secret, fully confident that after the revelations I shall make she will not dare to trouble you again with her presence.”

“But you must not—you shall not—do this!” cried Egerton excitedly. “She will wreak her vengeance upon me.”

“Entertain no such gloomy apprehensions,” urged Gabrielle, with a smile of assurance. “Before I have done with ‘La Belle Hirondelle’ she will implore for mercy upon her knees. But will I extend any to her? No. Grand Dieu! She shall suffer for her crime, as I have done.”

She spoke determinedly, her dark eyes emitting a fierce gleam of hatred.

“How do you propose to do that?” inquired Hugh breathlessly.

“Ask no questions at present, m’sieur. Your wife and her lover have obtained your fortune and are spending it recklessly. At present this—what you call leader of the demi-monde—is entertaining a party at your château. My proposal is that we three go down there to-morrow and in the midst of the festivities, we will produce an interesting tableau. Do you agree?”

“You spoke of my wife’s lover,” gasped Hugh. “Tell me, who is he?”

“Pierre Rouillier—the man you know as Adolphe Chavoix.”

“Chavoix!”

“Yes. Accompany me to-morrow, and you shall see.”

There was a brief silence, followed by some protests from Egerton, but after considerable argument it was eventually agreed that mademoiselle’s suggestion should be carried out.

The artist produced some wine and glasses, and they drank together. Soon afterwards Gabrielle, urging her old friend to be of good cheer, took her departure. As she opened the door to take her leave, she exclaimed, with an exultant laugh—

“La Belle little dreams how near is Nemesis. You do not anticipate how complete my revenge will be. Her future is in my hands. Mon Dieu! We shall triumph and crush her. Nevertheless she richly deserves her punishment, and she shall receive it, never fear.”