Loe raamatut: «The Temptress», lehekülg 17

Chapter Thirty One
A Wanderer

A wet winter’s night in London.

Heedless of the heavy rain and biting east wind that swept in violent gusts along the dismal, deserted Strand, Hugh Trethowen, with bent head, plodded doggedly on towards Westminster. His scanty clothes, or rather the patched and ragged remains of what once were garments, were saturated and clung to him, while the icy wind blew through him, chilling him to the bone. Although unprotected by either umbrella or overcoat, he neither hesitated nor sought shelter, but, apparently quite unconscious of the inclement weather, continued to walk as briskly as his tired limbs would allow. Trudging onward, without glancing either to right or left, he splashed with heavy, careless steps through the muddy street, absorbed in his own sad thoughts.

Weary, hungry, and penniless, he nevertheless experienced a feeling of satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise, at finding himself again treading the well-remembered London streets, after escaping death so narrowly.

The two years’ absence had aged him considerably. The hard lines on his still handsome features told of the privations and sufferings he had undergone, and he no longer carried himself erect, but with a stoop which was now habitual, the result of hard toil in the mine.

His rescue had been almost providential.

The shock at finding both his companions dead, combined with the agony of mind caused by the revelations made by Bérard, overwhelmed him. In despair he felt that his end was near, and as a natural consequence soon lapsed into unconsciousness. For hours, days, he may have remained in that condition, for aught he knew. When he recovered his senses he was astonished at finding himself lying in a berth in a clean, cool cabin. A man was bending over him – a big, bearded, kindly-looking seaman, who smoothed his pillow, and uttered some words in an unfamiliar language. By using French, however, both men were able to converse, and it was then he learnt that he had been picked up by the Norwegian steamer Naes, which was on a voyage from Sydney to San Francisco. The utmost kindness was shown to him by the captain, to whom he told the story of his imprisonment and escape, and after an uneventful voyage he landed at the American port. Utterly destitute, with only two dollars in his pocket, which had been given to him by a passenger for rendering some little services, he at once sought work, intending to earn enough to enable him to cross America and return to England.

Bérard’s allegations against Valérie and Egerton were mysterious and incomprehensible, and, with the sole object of getting to London and seeking a full explanation, he toiled diligently at various menial occupations, always moving from town to town in the direction of the Atlantic. Successively he pursued the vocations of cattle drover, watchman, farm labourer, and railway stoker, until at length, after many months of anxious work, he arrived at New York, and shipped on board a steamer bound for London, giving his services as fireman in return for the passage home.

Thus he had reached the Metropolis that evening without possessing a single penny, and was therefore compelled to tramp the whole distance from the docks through the steadily-falling rain.

Had he written to Egerton for money to pay his passage he knew he should have obtained it, but he was determined to make his reappearance in London unexpectedly. He intended to descend suddenly upon both his friend and Valérie, to ascertain how much truth was contained in the dying confession of the convict. If he sent for money, he told himself that he might be asking a favour of his wife’s lover, hence he decided to work his own way towards his goal, if slowly, nevertheless with effect.

Once only he raised his head. He was passing the entrance of Terry’s Theatre, where upon the step there stood two young men in evening dress, who were smoking during the entr’acte. Looking up he recognised them as bachelor acquaintances, but desirous of being unobserved in that plight, he quickly bent his head again, and continued his dreary walk. The keen wind blew through his scanty garments, causing him to shiver, yet the atmospheric change from the hot, stifling stokehold to the midwinter blast troubled him not. He merely drew his wet jacket closer around him, quickened his pace, and strode across Trafalgar Square, turning in the direction of Victoria Street.

Indeed, he had little upon which to congratulate himself. True, he had escaped a terrible death; yet even this was counterbalanced by the fact that all that was nearest and dearest to him had been swept away. His idol had been thrown from her pedestal; the woman he had trusted and loved, turning a deaf ear to warning and entreaty alike, had been denounced as a crafty, shameless adventuress. Nevertheless, even in the depths of his despair he refused to give entire credence to the words of his dead comrade, and, arguing against himself, resolved to face her before judging her.

Strange it is how we men cling to the belief that the woman we love is pure, notwithstanding the most obvious proofs of infamy are thrust under our very noses. The moment we regard a woman as our ideal, we at once close our eyes to her every fault; and the more beautiful and kind-mannered she is, the less prone are we to accept what is told us of her past. It is so in every case of passionate affection. Woman always holds the whip-hand, while her adorer is weak and helpless as a child, easily misled, deceived with impunity, and made the shuttlecock of feminine caprice.

After marriage, when the glamour fails and man’s natural caution asserts itself, then follows remorse – and frequently divorce.

Hugh had little difficulty in discovering Victoria Mansions, in which Valérie’s flat was situated. Shortly before their marriage he had renewed the lease of the suite in order that they might have a place of their own in town; therefore he felt certain that he should find her there. With anxious feelings he ascended the broad staircase, and rang the bell of the outer door.

There was neither response nor sound of movement within, and although he repeated his summons several times it was evident no one was at home.

As he stood before the door the porter ascended, and, noticing his attire, inquired gruffly what his business was.

“I want Mrs Trethowen,” he replied.

“She’s away.”

“Where is she?”

“How should I know?”

“When did she leave?”

“A week ago. She and the gentleman and the two maids went away together. I believe they’ve gone to their country place.”

“The gentleman! Who’s he?” asked Hugh in surprise.

“Why, madame’s husband, I suppose. But there – I don’t know anything about people’s business in this place. Got enough to do to look after my own,” he added, with a sardonic grin.

“What sort of man is this gentleman?” inquired Trethowen excitedly.

“Find out,” replied the man in uniform arrogantly. “I don’t want any of your cross-examination. She’s gone away, and that’s enough for you.”

Then he turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor, leaving Hugh disconcerted and perplexed.

The gentleman! Madame’s husband! Could it be that Valérie had already forgotten him? It was clearly useless to remain there, so he quickly resolved to go to Egerton, seek what information he could afford, and endeavour to obtain an explanation of the terrible allegations made by Bérard.

With this object he descended into the street, and with hastening steps pursued his way to Chelsea.

The artist was sitting alone before the studio fire, lazily smoking, and reading a novel, when Mrs O’Shea opened the door for Hugh to enter.

Unaware of the presence of a visitor, he did not glance up from his book for a few seconds, but when his eyes suddenly fell upon the gaunt, ragged figure before him, he was speechless with amazement.

“Good God! – Hugh!” he cried, springing to his feet, and making a movement as if to grasp his friend’s hand.

But his visitor calmly put his hand behind his back, and, in a deep, earnest tone, he replied coldly —

“Yes, Jack. Before we shake hands, however, I have some questions to put to you.”

“Questions!” exclaimed the artist. “Why, what’s the matter?” Then, noticing the state of his clothing, he added. “You were reported dead. Where have you been; what’s the reason of your long silence?”

“I’ve been in prison.”

“In prison!”

The other nodded an affirmative, and briefly described how he had been arrested and transported, and the manner in which he had effected his escape.

The artist listened in dumb amazement.

“But what was your crime?” he asked, when Hugh had concluded his narrative. “Surely there must have been some very serious mistake.”

“No, none. I have been the victim of a foul conspiracy, in which you, my old and best friend, have assisted,” he replied bitterly.

“Why, Hugh, what do you mean? Of what do you accuse me?”

“Valérie was your mistress!”

“Valérie!” he cried, starting up. “I – indeed, I – ”

“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 Bérard, with ‘La Petite 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 hoarsely, 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.

“Bérard has confessed.”

“God! Hugh! Then —then you know my secret!” he gasped hoarsely, 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 friendship,” 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 circumstances in the crime which I committed – none – ”

“Hush!” 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 passion 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 Bérard 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 passion – “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.”

Again he paused – he was now standing before his friend – the bright eyes gleamed with the intensity of his passion, his lips were quivering, and his breast rose and fell with the emotion which the painful memory called forth.

“Laugh, sneer, if you will,” he continued wildly; “but even as I have seen lightning strike a man dead to earth, her eyes flashed upon me, and reft me of heart, of reason, of soul.”

He paused, and drew a deep sigh.

“I was mad – mad,” he went on, with suppressed emotion, “and could not help myself. She absorbed all thought, all mind, and I was false to my true mistress, Art. Brush and easel were forgotten that I might seek this woman, and with my eyes drink in her beauty that filled my veins with poison. Her features and form were the perfection of beauty. Ah! but there – you know too well. Valérie’s beauty is that of a divine statue, and only a statue. A very goddess of loveliness, but carven in cold stone. There is no heart, no life, no soul within. I saw this then clearly, as I see it now, yet still I loved her – I loved her!”

He flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the table, hid his face in his hands.

“Is that all?” inquired Trethowen, looking up from beneath his heavy brows.

“No, no – would to heaven that had been all. I scarcely know how, but we became friends. We were both poor, many of our tastes were in common, and at length I prevailed upon her to visit our shabby atelier, where I painted her portrait. It was my best work; I have done nothing to equal it since. She was pleased with it, and favoured me. In my madness I cared not how the favour was obtained. I was in a mad, drunken delirium of joy, and abandoned myself to destruction. Alas! it came. I was dashed from the threshold of paradise into the abyss of despair. I learned that this woman whom I worshipped as an idol was no better than the painted and powdered women who frequented the Bal Bullier and the Moulin Rouge – that she had a lover!”

He laughed a hard, bitter laugh, and then was silent.

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 – ”