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Title: The Grey Woman
Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0605561.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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The Grey Woman
Elizabeth Gaskell




Portion I

There is a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many people resort for
coffee, according to the fashion which is almost national in Germany.
There is nothing particularly attractive in the situation of this
mill; it is on the Mannheim (the flat and unromantic) side of
Heidelberg. The river turns the mill-wheel with a plenteous gushing
sound; the out-buildings and the dwelling-house of the miller form a
well-kept dusty quadrangle. Again, further from the river, there is a
garden full of willows, and arbours, and flower-beds not well kept,
but very profuse in flowers and luxuriant creepers, knotting and
looping the arbours together. In each of these arbours is a stationary
table of white painted wood, and light moveable chairs of the same
colour and material.

I went to drink coffee there with some friends in 184-. The stately
old miller came out to greet us, as some of the party were known to
him of old. He was of a grand build of a man, and his loud musical
voice, with its tone friendly and familiar, his rolling laugh of
welcome, went well with the keen bright eye, the fine cloth of his
coat, and the general look of substance about the place. Poultry of
all kinds abounded in the mill-yard, where there were ample means of
livelihood for them strewed on the ground; but not content with this,
the miller took out handfuls of corn from the sacks, and threw
liberally to the cocks and hens that ran almost under his feet in
their eagerness. And all the time he was doing this, as it were
habitually, he was talking to us, and ever and anon calling to his
daughter and the serving-maids, to bid them hasten the coffee we had
ordered. He followed us to an arbour, and saw us served to his
satisfaction with the best of everything we could ask for; and then
left us to go round to the different arbours and see that each party
was properly attended to; and, as he went, this great, prosperous,
happy-looking man whistled softly one of the most plaintive airs I
ever heard.

'His family have held this mill ever since the old Palatinate days; or
rather, I should say, have possessed the ground ever since then, for
two successive mills of theirs have been burnt down by the French. If
you want to see Scherer in a passion, just talk to him of the
possibility of a French invasion.'

But at this moment, still whistling that mournful air, we saw the
miller going down the steps that led from the somewhat raised garden
into the mill-yard; and so I seemed to have lost my chance of putting
him in a passion.

We had nearly finished our coffee, and our Kuchen, and our cinnamon
cake, when heavy splashes fell on our thick leafy covering; quicker
and quicker they came, coming through the tender leaves as if they
were tearing them asunder; all the people in the garden were hurrying
under shelter, or seeking for their carriages standing outside. Up the
steps the miller came hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover
everyone left in the garden, and followed by his daughter, and one or
two maidens, each bearing an umbrella.

'Come into the house--come in, I say. It is a summer-storm, and will
flood the place for an hour or two, till the river carries it away.
Here, here.'

And we followed him back into his own house. We went into the kitchen
first. Such an array of bright copper and tin vessels I never saw; and
all the wooden things were as thoroughly scoured. The red tile floor
was spotless when we went in, but in two minutes it was all over slop
and dirt with the tread of many feet; for the kitchen was filled, and
still the worthy miller kept bringing in more people under his great
crimson umbrella. He even called the dogs in, and made them lie down
under the tables.

His daughter said something to him in German, and he shook his head
merrily at her. Everybody laughed.

'What did she say?' I asked.

'She told him to bring the ducks in next; but indeed if more people
come we shall be suffocated. What with the thundery weather, and the
stove, and all these steaming clothes, I really think we must ask
leave to pass on. Perhaps we might go in and see Frau Scherer.'

My friend asked the daughter of the house for permission to go into an
inner chamber and see her mother. It was granted, and we went into a
sort of saloon, overlooking the Neckar; very small, very bright, and
very close. The floor was slippery with polish; long narrow pieces of
looking-glass against the walls reflected the perpetual motion of the
river opposite; a white porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned
ornaments of brass about it; a sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet, a
table before it, and a piece of worsted-worked carpet under it; a vase
of artificial flowers; and, lastly, an alcove with a bed in it, on
which lay the paralysed wife of the good miller, knitting busily,
formed the furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be seen
in the room; but, sitting quietly, while my friend kept up a brisk
conversation in a language which I but half understood, my eye was
caught by a picture in a dark corner of the room, and I got up to
examine it more nearly.

It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty; evidently of middle
rank. There was a sensitive refinement in her face, as if she almost
shrank from the gaze which, of necessity, the painter must have fixed
upon her. It was not over-well painted, but I felt that it must have
been a good likeness, from this strong impress of peculiar character
which I have tried to describe. From the dress, I should guess it to
have been painted in the latter half of the last century. And I
afterwards heard that I was right.

There was a little pause in the conversation.

'Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is?'

My friend repeated my question, and received a long reply in German.
Then she turned round and translated it to me.

'It is the likeness of a great-aunt of her husband's.' (My friend was
standing by me, and looking at the picture with sympathetic
curiosity.) 'See! here is the name on the open page of this Bible,
"Anna Scherer, 1778" Frau Scherer says there is a tradition in the
family that this pretty girl, with her complexion of lilies and roses,
lost her colour so entirely through fright, that she was known by the
name of the Grey Woman. She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in
some state of life-long terror. But she does not know details; refers
me to her husband for them. She thinks he has some papers which were
written by the original of that picture for her daughter, who died in
this very house not long after our friend there was married. We can
ask Herr Scherer for the whole story if you like.'

'Oh yes, pray do!' said I. And, as our host came in at this moment to
ask how we were faring, and to tell us that he had sent to Heidelberg
for carriages to convey us home, seeing no chance of the heavy rain
abating, my friend, after thanking him, passed on to my request.

'Ah!' said he, his face changing, 'the aunt Anna had a sad history. It
was all owing to one of those hellish Frenchmen; and her daughter
suffered for it--the cousin Ursula, as we all called her when I was a
child. To be sure, the good cousin Ursula was his child as well. The
sins of the fathers are visited on their children. The lady would like
to know all about it, would she? Well, there are papers--a kind of
apology the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her daughter's
engagement--or rather facts which she revealed, that prevented cousin
Ursula from marrying the man she loved; and so she would never have
any other good fellow, else I have heard say my father would have been
thankful to have made her his wife.' All this time he was rummaging in
the drawer of an old-fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a
bundle of yellow MSS in his hand, which he gave to my friend, saying,
'Take it home, take it home, and if you care to make out our crabbed
German writing, you may keep it as long as you like, and read it at
your leisure. Only I must have it back again when you have done with
it, that's all.'

And so we became possessed of the manuscript of the following letter,
which it was our employment, during many a long evening that ensuing
winter, to translate, and in some parts to abbreviate. The letter
began with some reference to the pain which she had already inflicted
upon her daughter by some unexplained opposition to a project of
marriage; but I doubt if, without the clue with which the good miller
had furnished us, we could have made out even this much from the
passionate, broken sentences that made us fancy that some scene
between the mother and daughter--and possibly a third person--had
occurred just before the mother had begun to write.

* * *

'Thou dost not love thy child, mother! Thou dost not care if her heart
is broken!' Ah, God! and these words of my heart-beloved Ursula ring
in my ears as if the sound of them would fill them when I lie a-dying.
And her poor tear-stained face comes between me and everything else.
Child! hearts do not break; life is very tough as well as very
terrible. But I will not decide for thee. I will tell thee all; and
thou shalt bear the burden of choice. I may be wrong; I have little
wit left, and never had much, I think; but an instinct serves me in
place of judgment, and that instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri
must never be married. Yet I may be in error. I would fain make my
child happy. Lay this paper before the good priest Schriesheim; if,
after reading it, thou hast doubts which make thee uncertain. Only I
will tell thee all now, on condition that no spoken word ever passes
between us on the subject. It would kill me to be questioned. I should
have to see all present again.

My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the Neckar, where thy
new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives. Thou rememberest the surprise
with which we were received there last vintage twelvemonth. How thy
uncle disbelieved me when I said that I was his sister Anna, whom he
had long believed to be dead, and how I had to lead thee underneath
the picture, painted of me long ago, and point out, feature by
feature, the likeness between it and thee; and how, as I spoke, I
recalled first to my own mind, and then by speech to his, the details
of the time when it was painted; the merry words that passed between
us then, a happy boy and girl; the position of the articles of
furniture in the room; our father's habits; the cherry-tree, now cut
down, that shaded the window of my bedroom, through which my brother
was wont to squeeze himself, in order to spring on to the topmost
bough that would bear his weight; and thence would pass me back his
cap laden with fruit to where I sat on the window-sill, too sick with
fright for him to care much for eating the cherries.

And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister Anna,
even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou rememberest how he
fetched in his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was come
back to the old home once more, changed as I was. And she would scarce
believe him, and scanned me with a cold, distrustful eye, till at
length--for I knew her of old as Babette Muller--I said that I was
well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for what they had to
give. And then she asked--not me, but her husband--why I had kept
silent so long, leading all--father, brother, everyone that loved me
in my own dear home--to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou
rememberest?) said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell;
that I was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in his old
age, as I had been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart for his
trust; for were the need for telling all less than it seems to me now
I could not speak of my past life. But she, who was my sister-in-law
still, held back her welcome, and, for want of that, I did not go to
live in Heidelberg as I had planned beforehand, in order to be near my
brother Fritz, but contented myself with his promise to be a father to
my Ursula when I should die and leave this weary world.

That Babette Muller was, as I may say, the cause of all my life's
suffering. She was a baker's daughter in Heidelberg--a great beauty,
as people said, and, indeed, as I could see for myself. I, too--thou
sawest my picture--was reckoned a beauty, and I believe I was so.
Babette Muller looked upon me as a rival. She liked to be admired, and
had no one much to love her. I had several people to love me--thy
grandfather Fritz, the old servant Katchen, Karl, the head apprentice
at the mill--and I feared admiration and notice, and the being stared
at as the Schsne Mullerin, whenever I went to make my purchases in
Heidelberg.

Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Katchen to help me in the
housework, and whatever we did pleased my brave old father, who was
always gentle and indulgent towards us women, though he was stern
enough with the apprentices in the mill. Karl, the oldest of these,
was his favourite; and I can see now that my father wished him to
marry me, and that Karl himself was desirous to do so. But Karl was
rough-spoken, and passionate--not with me, but with the others--and I
shrank from him in a way which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came
thy uncle Fritz's marriage; and Babette was brought to the mill to be
its mistress. Not that I cared much for giving up my post, for, in
spite of my father's great kindness, I always feared that I did not
manage well for so large a family (with the men, and a girl under
Katchen, we sat down eleven each night to supper). But when Babette
began to find fault with Katchen, I was unhappy at the blame that fell
on faithful servants; and by-and-by I began to see that Babette was
egging on Karl to make more open love to me, and, as she once said, to
get done with it, and take me off to a home of my own. My father was
growing old, and did not perceive all my daily discomfort. The more
Karl advanced, the more I disliked him. He was good in the main, but I
had no notion of being married, and could not bear anyone who talked
to me about it.

Things were in this way when I had an invitation to go to Karlsruhe to
visit a schoolfellow, of whom I had been very fond. Babette was all
for my going; I don't think I wanted to leave home, and yet I had been
very fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But I was always shy among strangers.
Somehow the affair was settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my
father had made inquiries as to the character and position of the
Rupprechts. They learned that the father had held some kind of
inferior position about the Grand-duke's court, and was now dead,
leaving a widow, a noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom
was Sophie, my friend. Madame Rupprecht was not rich, but more than
respectable--genteel. When this was ascertained, my father made no
opposition to my going; Babette forwarded it by all the means in her
power, and even my dear Fritz had his word to say in its favour. Only
Katchen was against it--Katchen and Karl. The opposition of Karl did
more to send me to Karlsruhe than anything. For I could have objected
to go; but when he took upon himself to ask what was the good of going
a-gadding, visiting strangers of whom no one knew anything, I yielded
to circumstances--to the pulling of Sophie and the pushing of Babette.
I was silently vexed, I remember, at Babette's inspection of my
clothes; at the way in which she settled that this gown was too old-
fashioned, or that too common, to go with me on my visit to a noble
lady; and at the way in which she took upon herself to spend the money
my father had given me to buy what was requisite for the occasion. And
yet I blamed myself, for everyone else thought her so kind for doing
all this; and she herself meant kindly, too.

At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It was a long day's
journey, and Fritz went with me to Karlsruhe. The Rupprechts lived on
the third floor of a house a little behind one of the principal
streets, in a cramped-up court, to which we gained admittance through
a doorway in the street. I remember how pinched their rooms looked
after the large space we had at the mill, and yet they had an air of
grandeur about them which was new to me, and which gave me pleasure,
faded as some of it was. Madame Rupprecht was too formal a lady for
me; I was never at my ease with her; but Sophie was all that I had
recollected her at school: kind, affectionate, and only rather too
ready with her expressions of admiration and regard. The little sister
kept out of our way; and that was all we needed, in the first
enthusiastic renewal of our early friendship. The one great object of
Madame Rupprecht's life was to retain her position in society; and as
her means were much diminished since her husband's death, there was
not much comfort, though there was a great deal of show, in their way
of living; just the opposite of what it was at my father's house. I
believe that my coming was not too much desired by Madame Rupprecht,
as I brought with me another mouth to be fed; but Sophie had spent a
year or more in entreating for permission to invite me, and her
mother, having once consented, was too well bred not to give me a
stately welcome.

The life in Karlsruhe was very different from what it was at home. The
hours were later, the coffee was weaker in the morning, the pottage
was weaker, the boiled beef less relieved by other diet, the dresses
finer, the evening engagements constant. I did not find these visits
pleasant. We might not knit, which would have relieved the tedium a
little; but we sat in a circle, talking together, only interrupted
occasionally by a gentleman, who, breaking out of the knot of men who
stood near the door, talking eagerly together, stole across the room
on tiptoe, his hat under his arm, and, bringing his feet together in
the position we called the first at the dancing-school, made a low bow
to the lady he was going to address. The first time I saw these
manners I could not help smiling; but Madame Rupprecht saw me, and
spoke to me next morning rather severely, telling me that, of course,
in my country breeding I could have seen nothing of court manners, or
French fashions, but that that was no reason for my laughing at them.
Of course I tried never to smile again in company. This visit to
Karlsruhe took place in '89, just when everyone was full of the events
taking place at Paris; and yet at Karlsruhe French fashions were more
talked of than French politics. Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought
a great deal of all French people. And this again was quite different
to us at home. Fritz could hardly bear the name of a Frenchman; and it
had nearly been an obstacle to my visit to Sophie that her mother
preferred being called Madame to her proper title of Frau.

One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and longing for the time when
we might have supper and go home, so as to be able to speak together,
a thing forbidden by Madame Rupprecht's rules of etiquette, which
strictly prohibited any but the most necessary conversation passing
between members of the same family when in society. I was sitting, I
say, scarcely keeping back my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen
came in, one of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole party, from
the formal manner in which the host led him up, and presented him to
the hostess. I thought I had never seen anyone so handsome or so
elegant. His hair was powdered, of course, but one could see from his
complexion that it was fair in its natural state. His features were as
delicate as a girl's, and set off by two little mouches, as we called
patches in those days, one at the left corner of his mouth, the other
prolonging, as it were, the right eye. His dress was blue and silver.
I was so lost in admiration of this beautiful young man, that I was as
much surprised as if the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the lady
of the house brought him forward to present him to me. She called him
Monsieur de la Tourelle, and he began to speak to me in French; but
though I understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself to reply
to him in that language. Then he tried German, speaking it with a kind
of soft lisp that I thought charming. But, before the end of the
evening, I became a little tired of the affected softness and
effeminacy of his manners, and the exaggerated compliments he paid me,
which had the effect of making all the company turn round and look at
me. Madame Rupprecht was, however, pleased with the precise thing that
displeased me. She liked either Sophie or me to create a sensation; of
course she would have preferred that it should have been her daughter,
but her daughter's friend was next best. As we went away, I heard
Madame Rupprecht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating civil
speeches with might and main, from which I found out that the French
gentleman was coming to call on us the next day. I do not know whether
I was more glad or frightened, for I had been kept upon stilts of good
manners all the evening. But still I was flattered when Madame
Rupprecht spoke as if she had invited him, because he had shown
pleasure in my society, and even more gratified by Sophie's ungrudging
delight at the evident interest I had excited in so fine and agreeable
a gentleman. Yet, with all this, they had hard work to keep me from
running out of the salon the next day, when we heard his voice
inquiring at the gate on the stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They had
made me put on my Sunday gown, and they themselves were dressed as for
a reception.

When he was gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated me on the
conquest I had made; for, indeed, he had scarcely spoken to any one
else, beyond what mere civility required, and had almost invited
himself to come in the evening to bring some new song, which was all
the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame Rupprecht had been out all
morning, as she told me, to glean information about Monsieur de la
Tourelle. He was a proprietaire, had a small chateau on the Vosges
mountains; he owned land there, but had a large income from some
sources quite independent of this property. Altogether, he was a good
match, as she emphatically observed. She never seemed to think that I
could refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I believe
she would have allowed Sophie a choice, even had he been as old and
ugly as he was young and handsome. I do not quite know--so many events
have come to pass since then, and blurred the clearness of my
recollections--if I loved him or not. He was very much devoted to me;
he almost frightened me by the excess of his demonstrations of love.
And he was very charming to everybody around me, who all spoke of him
as the most fascinating of men, and of me as the most fortunate of
girls. And yet I never felt quite at my ease with him. I was always
relieved when his visits were over, although I missed his presence
when he did not come. He prolonged his visit to the friend with whom
he was staying at Karlsruhe, on purpose to woo me. He loaded me with
presents, which I was unwilling to take, only Madame Rupprecht seemed
to consider me an affected prude if I refused them. Many of these
presents consisted of articles of valuable old jewellery, evidently
belonging to his family; by accepting these I doubled the ties which
were formed around me by circumstances even more than by my own
consent. In those days we did not write letters to absent friends as
frequently as is done now, and I had been unwilling to name him in the
few letters that I wrote home. At length, however, I learned from
Madame Rupprecht that she had written to my father to announce the
splendid conquest I had made, and to request his presence at my
betrothal. I started with astonishment. I had not realized that
affairs had gone so far as this. But when she asked me, in a stern,
offended manner, what I had meant by my conduct if I did not intend to
marry Monsieur de la Tourelle--I had received his visits, his
presents, all his various advances without showing any unwillingness
or repugnance--(and it was all true; I had shown no repugnance, though
I did not wish to be married to him,--at least, not so soon)--what
could I do but hang my head, and silently consent to the rapid
enunciation of the only course which now remained for me if I would
not be esteemed a heartless coquette all the rest of my days?

There was some difficulty, which I afterwards learnt that my sister-
in-law had obviated, about my betrothal taking place from home. My
father, and Fritz especially, were for having me return to the mill,
and there be betrothed, and from thence be married. But the Rupprechts
and Monsieur de la Tourelle were equally urgent on the other side; and
Babette was unwilling to have the trouble of the commotion at the
mill; and also, I think, a little disliked the idea of the contrast of
my grander marriage with her own.

So my father and Fritz came over to the betrothal. They were to stay
at an inn in Karlsruhe for a fortnight, at the end of which time the
marriage was to take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle told me he had
business at home, which would oblige him to be absent during the
interval between the two events; and I was very glad of it, for I did
not think that he valued my father and my brother as I could have
wished him to do. He was very polite to them; put on all the soft,
grand manner, which he had rather dropped with me; and complimented us
all round, beginning with my father and Madame Rupprecht, and ending
with little Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned
church ceremonies which my father insisted on; and I fancy Fritz must
have taken some of his compliments as satire, for I saw certain signs
of manner by which I knew that my future husband, for all his civil
words, had irritated and annoyed my brother. But all the money
arrangements were liberal in the extreme, and more than satisfied,
almost surprised, my father. Even Fritz lifted up his eyebrows and
whistled. I alone did not care about anything. I was bewitched,--in a
dream,--a kind of despair. I had got into a net through my own
timidity and weakness, and I did not see how to get out of it. I clung
to my own home-people that fortnight as I had never done before. Their
voices, their ways were all so pleasant and familiar to me, after the
constraint in which I had been living. I might speak and do as I liked
without being corrected by Madame Rupprecht, or reproved in a
delicate, complimentary way by Monsieur de la Tourelle. One day I said
to my father that I did not want to be married, that I would rather go
back to the dear old mill; but he seemed to feel this speech of mine
as a dereliction of duty as great as if I had committed perjury; as
if, after the ceremony of betrothal, no one had any right over me but
my future husband. And yet he asked me some solemn questions; but my
answers were not such as to do me any good.

'Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man that should prevent
God's blessing from resting on thy marriage with him? Dost thou feel
aversion or repugnance to him in any way?'

And to all this what could I say? I could only stammer out that I did
not think I loved him enough; and my poor old father saw in this
reluctance only the fancy of a silly girl who did not know her own
mind, but who had now gone too far to recede.

So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privilege which Madame
Rupprecht had used no end of efforts to obtain for us, and which she
must have thought was to secure us all possible happiness, both at the
time and in recollection afterwards.

We were married; and after two days spent in festivity at Karlsruhe,
among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade good-bye for ever
to my dear old father. I had begged my husband to take me by way of
Heidelberg to his old castle in the Vosges; but I found an amount of
determination, under that effeminate appearance and manner, for which
I was not prepared, and he refused my first request so decidedly that
I dared not urge it. 'Henceforth, Anna,' said he, 'you will move in a
different sphere of life; and though it is possible that you may have
the power of showing favour to your relations from time to time, yet
much or familiar intercourse will be undesirable, and is what I cannot
allow.' I felt almost afraid, after this formal speech, of asking my
father and Fritz to come and see me; but, when the agony of bidding
them farewell overcame all my prudence, I did beg them to pay me a
visit ere long. But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at
home, of different kinds of life, of my being a Frenchwoman now. Only
my father broke out at last with a blessing, and said, 'If my child is
unhappy--which God forbid--let her remember that her father's house is
ever open to her.' I was on the point of crying out, 'Oh! take me back
then now, my father! oh, my father!' when I felt, rather than saw, my
husband present near me. He looked on with a slightly contemptuous
air; and, taking my hand in his, he led me weeping away, saying that
short farewells were always the best when they were inevitable.

It took us two days to reach his chateau in the Vosges, for the roads
were bad and the way difficult to ascertain. Nothing could be more
devoted than he was all the time of the journey. It seemed as if he
were trying in every way to make up for the separation which every
hour made me feel the more complete between my present and my former
life. It seemed as if I were only now wakening up to a full sense of
what marriage was, and I dare say I was not a cheerful companion on
the tedious journey. At length, jealousy of my regret for my father
and brother got the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so much
displeased with me that I thought my heart would break with the sense
of desolation. So it was in no cheerful frame of mind that we
approached Les Rochers, and I thought that perhaps it was because I
was so unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On one side, the
chateau looked like a raw new building, hastily run up for some
immediate purpose, without any growth of trees or underwood near it,
only the remains of the stone used for building, not yet cleared away
from the immediate neighbourhood, although weeds and lichens had been
suffered to grow near and over the heaps of rubbish; on the other,
were the great rocks from which the place took its name, and rising
close against them, as if almost a natural formation, was the old
castle, whose building dated many centuries back.

It was not large nor grand, but it was strong and picturesque, and I
used to wish that we lived in it rather than in the smart, half-
furnished apartment in the new edifice, which had been hastily got
ready for my reception. Incongruous as the two parts were, they were
joined into a whole by means of intricate passages and unexpected
doors, the exact positions of which I never fully understood. M. de la
Tourelle led me to a suite of rooms set apart for me, and formally
installed me in them, as in a domain of which I was sovereign. He
apologized for the hasty preparation which was all he had been able to
make for me, but promised, before I asked, or even thought of
complaining, that they should be made as luxurious as heart could wish
before many weeks had elapsed. But when, in the gloom of an autumnal
evening, I caught my own face and figure reflected in all the mirrors,
which showed only a mysterious background in the dim light of the many
candles which failed to illuminate the great proportions of the half-
furnished salon, I clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged to be taken
to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage, he seemed angry with
me, although he affected to laugh, and so decidedly put aside the
notion of my having any other rooms but these, that I trembled in
silence at the fantastic figures and shapes which my imagination
called up as peopling the background of those gloomy mirrors. There
was my boudoir, a little less dreary--my bedroom, with its grand and
tarnished furniture, which I commonly made into my sitting-room,
locking up the various doors which led into the boudoir, the salon,
the passages--all but one, through which M. de la Tourelle always
entered from his own apartments in the older part of the castle. But
this preference of mine for occupying my bedroom annoyed M. de la
Tourelle, I am sure, though he did not care to express his
displeasure. He would always allure me back into the salon, which I
disliked more and more from its complete separation from the rest of
the building by the long passage into which all the doors of my
apartment opened. This passage was closed by heavy doors and
portieres, through which I could not hear a sound from the other parts
of the house, and, of course, the servants could not hear any movement
or cry of mine unless expressly summoned. To a girl brought up as I
had been in a household where every individual lived all day in the
sight of every other member of the family, never wanted either
cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship, this grand
isolation of mine was very formidable; and the more so, because M. de
la Tourelle, as landed proprietor, sportsman, and what not, was
generally out of doors the greater part of every day, and sometimes
for two or three days at a time. I had no pride to keep me from
associating with the domestics; it would have been natural to me in
many ways to have sought them out for a word of sympathy in those
dreary days when I was left so entirely to myself, had they been like
our kindly German servants. But I disliked them, one and all. I could
not tell why. Some were civil, but there was a familiarity in their
civility which repelled me; others were rude, and treated me more as
if I were an intruder than their master's chosen wife; and yet of the
two sets I liked these last the best.

The principal male servant belonged to this latter class. I was very
much afraid of him, he had such an air of suspicious surliness about
him in all he did for me; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke of him as
most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes struck me that
Lefebvre ruled his master in some things; and this I could not make
out. For, while M. de la Tourelle behaved towards me as if I were some
precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, and petted, and
indulged, I soon found out how little I, or, apparently, anyone else,
could bend the terrible will of the man who had on first acquaintance
appeared to me too effeminate and languid to exert his will in the
slightest particular. I had learnt to know his face better now; and to
see that some vehement depth of feeling, the cause of which I could
not fathom, made his grey eye glitter with pale light, and his lips
contract, and his delicate cheek whiten on certain occasions. But all
had been so open and above board at home, that I had no experience to
help me to unravel any mysteries among those who lived under the same
roof. I understood that I had made what Madame Rupprecht and her set
would have called a great marriage, because I lived in a chateau with
many servants, bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I understood
that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me in his way--proud of my
beauty, I dare say (for he often enough spoke about it to me)--but he
was also jealous, and suspicious, and uninfluenced by my wishes,
unless they tallied with his own. I felt at this time as if I could
have been fond of him too, if he would have let me; but I was timid
from my childhood, and before long my dread of his displeasure (coming
down like thunder into the midst of his love, for such slight causes
as a hesitation in reply, a wrong word, or a sigh for my father),
conquered my humorous inclination to love one who was so handsome, so
accomplished, so indulgent and devoted. But if I could not please him
when indeed I loved him, you may imagine how often I did wrong when I
was so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his company for fear of
his outbursts of passion. One thing I remember noticing, that the more
M. de la Tourelle was displeased with me, the more Lefebvre seemed to
chuckle; and when I was restored to favour, sometimes on as sudden an
impulse as that which occasioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look
askance at me with his cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice at such
times he spoke most disrespectfully to M. de la Tourelle.

I have almost forgotten to say that, in the early days of my life at
Les Rochers, M. de la Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent pity at my
weakness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the salon, wrote up to
the milliner in Paris from whom my corbeille de mariage had come, to
desire her to look out for me a maid of middle age, experienced in the
toilette, and with so much refinement that she might on occasion serve
as companion to me.




Portion II

A Norman woman, Amante by name, was sent to Les Rochers by the Paris
milliner, to become my maid. She was tall and handsome, though upwards
of forty, and somewhat gaunt. But, on first seeing her, I liked her;
she was neither rude nor familiar in her manners, and had a pleasant
look of straightforwardness about her that I had missed in all the
inhabitants of the chateau, and had foolishly set down in my own mind
as a national want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle to sit in
my boudoir, and to be always within call. He also gave her many
instructions as to her duties in matters which, perhaps, strictly
belonged to my department of management. But I was young and
inexperienced, and thankful to be spared any responsibility.

I daresay it was true what M. de la Tourelle said--before many weeks
had elapsed--that, for a great lady, a lady of a castle, I became
sadly too familiar with my Norman waiting-maid. But you know that by
birth we were not very far apart in rank: Amante was the daughter of a
Norman farmer, I of a German miller; and besides that, my life was so
lonely! It almost seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had
written for someone capable of being my companion at times, and now he
was jealous of my free regard for her--angry because I could sometimes
laugh at her original tunes and amusing proverbs, while when with him
I was too much frightened to smile.

From time to time families from a distance of some leagues drove
through the bad roads in their heavy carriages to pay us a visit, and
there was an occasional talk of our going to Paris when public affairs
should be a little more settled. These little events and plans were
the only variations in my life for the first twelve months, if I
except the alternations in M. de la Tourelle's temper, his
unreasonable anger, and his passionate fondness.

Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take pleasure and comfort in
Amante's society was, that whereas I was afraid of everybody (I do not
think I was half as much afraid of things as of persons), Amante
feared no one. She would quietly beard Lefebvre, and he respected her
all the more for it; she had a knack of putting questions to M. de la
Tourelle, which respectfully informed him that she had detected the
weak point, but forbore to press him too closely upon it out of
deference to his position as her master. And with all her shrewdness
to others, she had quite tender ways with me; all the more so at this
time because she knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell M. de la
Tourelle, that by-and-by I might become a mother--that wonderful
object of mysterious interest to single women, who no longer hope to
enjoy such blessedness themselves.

It was once more autumn; late in October. But I was reconciled to my
habitation; the walls of the new part of the building no longer looked
bare and desolate; the debris had been so far cleared away by M. de la
Tourelle's desire as to make me a little flower-garden, in which I
tried to cultivate those plants that I remembered as growing at home.
Amante and I had moved the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it to
our liking; my husband had ordered many an article from time to time
that he thought would give me pleasure, and I was becoming tame to my
apparent imprisonment in a certain part of the great building, the
whole of which I had never yet explored. It was October, as I say,
once more. The days were lovely, though short in duration, and M. de
la Tourelle had occasion, so he said, to go to that distant estate the
superintendence of which so frequently took him away from home. He
took Lefebvre with him, and possibly some more of the lacqueys; he
often did. And my spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence;
and then the new sensation that he was the father of my unborn babe
came over me, and I tried to invest him with this fresh character. I
tried to believe that it was his passionate love for me that made him
so jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he did, restrictions on my
very intercourse with my dear father, from whom I was so entirely
separated, as far as personal intercourse was concerned.

I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful review of all the
troubles which lay hidden beneath the seeming luxury of my life. I
knew that no one cared for me except my husband and Amante; for it was
clear enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a parvenue, was
not popular among the few neighbours who surrounded us; and as for the
servants, the women were all hard and impudent-looking, treating me
with a semblance of respect that had more of mockery than reality in
it; while the men had a lurking kind of fierceness about them,
sometimes displayed even to M. de la Tourelle, who on his part, it
must be confessed, was often severe even to cruelty in his management
of them. My husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it almost
in the form of a question. His love was shown fitfully, and more in
ways calculated to please himself than to please me. I felt that for
no wish of mine would he deviate one tittle from any predetermined
course of action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those thin,
delicate lips; I knew how anger would turn his fair complexion to
deadly white, and bring the cruel light into his pale blue eyes. The
love I bore to anyone seemed to be a reason for his hating them, and
so I went on pitying myself one long dreary afternoon during that
absence of his of which I have spoken, only sometimes remembering to
check myself in my murmurings by thinking of the new unseen link
between us, and then crying afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh, how
well I remember that long October evening! Amante came in from time to
time, talking away to cheer me--talking about dress and Paris, and I
hardly know what, but from time to time looking at me keenly with her
friendly dark eyes, and with serious interest, too, though all her
words were about frivolity. At length she heaped the fire with wood,
drew the heavy silken curtains close; for I had been anxious hitherto
to keep them open, so that I might see the pale moon mounting the
skies, as I used to see her--the same moon--rise from behind the
Kaiser Stuhl at Heidelberg; but the sight made me cry, so Amante shut
it out. She dictated to me as a nurse does to a child.

'Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep her company,' she
said, 'while I go and ask Marthon for a cup of coffee.' I remember
that speech, and the way it roused me, for I did not like Amante to
think I wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be my petulance, but this
speech--such as she might have made to a child--annoyed me, and I
said that I had reason for my lowness of spirits--meaning that they
were not of so imaginary a nature that I could be diverted from them
by the gambols of a kitten. So, though I did not choose to tell her
all, I told her a part; and as I spoke, I began to suspect that the
good creature knew much of what I withheld, and that the little speech
about the kitten was more thoughtfully kind than it had seemed at
first. I said that it was so long since I had heard from my father;
that he was an old man, and so many things might happen--I might never
see him again--and I so seldom heard from him or my brother. It was a
more complete and total separation than I had ever anticipated when I
married, and something of my home and of my life previous to my
marriage I told the good Amante; for I had not been brought up as a
great lady, and the sympathy of any human being was precious to me.

Amante listened with interest, and in return told me some of the
events and sorrows of her own life. Then, remembering her purpose, she
set out in search of the coffee, which ought to have been brought to
me an hour before; but, in my husband's absence, my wishes were but
seldom attended to, and I never dared to give orders.

Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a great large cake.

'See!' said she, setting it down. 'Look at my plunder. Madame must
eat. Those who eat always laugh. And, besides, I have a little news
that will please madame.' Then she told me that, lying on a table in
the great kitchen, was a bundle of letters, come by the courier from
Strasburg that very afternoon: then, fresh from her conversation with
me, she had hastily untied the string that bound them, but had only
just traced out one that she thought was from Germany, when a servant-
man came in, and, with the start he gave her, she dropped the letters,
which he picked up, swearing at her for having untied and disarranged
them. She told him that she believed there was a letter there for her
mistress; but he only swore the more, saying, that if there was it was
no business of hers, or of his either, for that he had the strictest
orders always to take all letters that arrived during his master's
absence into the private sitting-room of the latter--a room into which
I had never entered, although it opened out of my husband's dressing-
room.

I asked Amante if she had not conquered and brought me this letter.
No, indeed, she replied, it was almost as much as her life was worth
to live among such a set of servants: it was only a month ago that
Jacques had stabbed Valentin for some jesting talk. Had I never missed
Valentin--that handsome young lad who carried up the wood into my
salon? Poor fellow! he lies dead and cold now, and they said in the
village he had put an end to himself, but those of the household knew
better. Oh! I need not be afraid; Jacques was gone, no one knew where;
but with such people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur
would be at home the next day, and it would not be long to wait.

But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day, without the
letter. It might be to say that my father was ill, dying--he might cry
for his daughter from his death-bed! In short, there was no end to the
thoughts and fancies that haunted me. It was of no use for Amante to
say that, after all, she might be mistaken--that she did not read
writing well--that she had but a glimpse of the address; I let my
coffee cool, my food all became distasteful, and I wrung my hands with
impatience to get at the letter, and have some news of my dear ones at
home. All the time, Amante kept her imperturbable good temper, first
reasoning, then scolding. At last she said, as if wearied out, that if
I would consent to make a good supper, she would see what could be
done as to our going to monsieur's room in search of the letter, after
the servants were all gone to bed. We agreed to go together when all
was still, and look over the letters; there could be no harm in that;
and yet, somehow, we were such cowards we dared not do it openly and
in the face of the household.

Presently my supper came up--partridges, bread, fruits, and cream. How
well I remember that supper! We put the untouched cake away in a sort
of buffet, and poured the cold coffee out of the window, in order that
the servants might not take offence at the apparent fancifulness of
sending down for food I could not eat. I was so anxious for all to be
in bed, that I told the footman who served that he need not wait to
take away the plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long after I
thought the house was quiet, Amante, in her caution, made me wait. It
was past eleven before we set out, with cat-like steps and veiled
light, along the passages, to go to my husband's room and steal my own
letter, if it was indeed there; a fact about which Amante had become
very uncertain in the progress of our discussion.

To make you understand my story, I must now try to explain to you the
plan of the chateau. It had been at one time a fortified place of some
strength, perched on the summit of a rock, which projected from the
side of the mountain. But additions had been made to the old building
(which must have borne a strong resemblance to the castles overhanging
the Rhine), and these new buildings were placed so as to command a
magnificent view, being on the steepest side of the rock, from which
the mountain fell away, as it were, leaving the great plain of France
in full survey. The ground-plan was something of the shape of three
sides of an oblong; my apartments in the modern edifice occupied the
narrow end, and had this grand prospect. The front of the castle was
old, and ran parallel to the road far below. In this were contained
the offices and public rooms of various descriptions, into which I
never penetrated. The back wing (considering the new building, in
which my apartments were, as the centre) consisted of many rooms, of a
dark and gloomy character, as the mountainside shut out much of the
sun, and heavy pine woods came down within a few yards of the windows.
Yet on this side--on a projecting plateau of the rock--my husband had
formed the flower-garden of which I have spoken; for he was a great
cultivator of flowers in his leisure moments.

Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new buildings on the part
next to the mountain. Hence I could have let myself down into the
flower-garden by my hands on the window-sill on one side, without
danger of hurting myself; while the windows at right angles with these
looked sheer down a descent of a hundred feet at least. Going still
farther along this wing, you came to the old building; in fact, these
two fragments of the ancient castle had formerly been attached by some
such connecting apartments as my husband had rebuilt. These rooms
belonged to M. de la Tourelle. His bedroom opened into mine, his
dressing-room lay beyond; and that was pretty nearly all I knew, for
the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of turning me back,
under some pretence, if ever they found me walking about alone, as I
was inclined to do, when first I came, from a sort of curiosity to see
the whole of the place of which I found myself mistress. M. de la
Tourelle never encouraged me to go out alone, either in a carriage or
for a walk, saying always that the roads were unsafe in those
disturbed times; indeed, I have sometimes fancied since that the
flower-garden, to which the only access from the castle was through
his rooms, was designed in order to give me exercise and employment
under his own eye.

But to return to that night. I knew, as I have said, that M. de la
Tourelle's private room opened out of his dressing-room, and this out
of his bedroom, which again opened into mine, the corner-room. But
there were other doors into all these rooms, and these doors led into
a long gallery, lighted by windows, looking into the inner court. I do
not remember our consulting much about it; we went through my room
into my husband's apartment, through the dressing-room, but the door
of communication into his study was locked, so there was nothing for
it but to turn back and go by the gallery to the other door. I
recollect noticing one or two things in these rooms, then seen by me
for the first time. I remember the sweet perfume that hung in the air,
the scent bottles of silver that decked his toilet-table, and the
whole apparatus for bathing and dressing, more luxurious even than
those which he had provided for me. But the room itself was less
splendid in its proportions than mine. In truth, the new buildings
ended at the entrance to my husband's dressing-room. There were deep
window recesses in walls eight or nine feet thick, and even the
partitions between the chambers were three feet deep; but over all
these doors or windows there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I
should think no one could have heard in one room what passed in
another. We went back into my room, and out into the gallery. We had
to shade our candle, from a fear that possessed us, I don't know why,
lest some of the servants in the opposite wing might trace our
progress towards the part of the castle unused by anyone except my
husband. Somehow, I had always the feeling that all the domestics,
except Amante, were spies upon me, and that I was trammelled in a web
of observation and unspoken limitation extending over all my actions.

There was a light in the upper room; we paused, and Amante would have
again retreated, but I was chafing under the delays. What was the harm
of my seeking my father's unopened letter to me in my husband's study?
I, generally the coward, now blamed Amante for her unusual timidity.
But the truth was, she had far more reason for suspicion as to the
proceedings of that terrible household than I had ever known of. I
urged her on, I pressed on myself; we came to the door, locked, but
with the key in it; we turned it, we entered; the letters lay on the
table, their white oblongs catching the light in an instant, and
revealing themselves to my eager eyes, hungering after the words of
love from my peaceful, distant home. But just as I pressed forward to
examine the letters, the candle which Amante held, caught in some
draught, went out, and we were in darkness. Amante proposed that we
should carry the letters back to my salon, collecting them as well as
we could in the dark, and returning all but the expected one for me;
but I begged her to return to my room, where I kept tinder and flint,
and to strike a fresh light; and so she went, and I remained alone in
the room, of which I could only just distinguish the size, and the
principal articles of furniture: a large table, with a deep,
overhanging cloth, in the middle, escritoires and other heavy articles
against the walls; all this I could see as I stood there, my hand on
the table close by the letters, my face towards the window, which,
both from the darkness of the wood growing high up the mountainside
and the faint light of the declining moon, seemed only like an oblong
of paler purpler black than the shadowy room. How much I remembered
from my one instantaneous glance before the candle went out, how much
I saw as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I do not know, but
even now, in my dreams, comes up that room of horror, distinct in its
profound shadow. Amante could hardly have been gone a minute before I
felt an additional gloom before the window, and heard soft movements
outside--soft, but resolute, and continued until the end was
accomplished, and the window raised.

In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at such an hour, and in
such a manner as to leave no doubt of their purpose, I would have
turned to fly when first I heard the noise, only that I feared by any
quick motion to catch their attention, as I also ran the danger of
doing by opening the door, which was all but closed, and to whose
handlings I was unaccustomed. Again, quick as lightning, I bethought
me of the hiding-place between the locked door to my husband's
dressing-room and the portiere which covered it; but I gave that up, I
felt as if I could not reach it without screaming or fainting. So I
sank down softly, and crept under the table, hidden, as I hoped, by
the great, deep table-cover, with its heavy fringe. I had not
recovered my swooning senses fully, and was trying to reassure myself
as to my being in a place of comparative safety, for, above all
things, I dreaded the betrayal of fainting, and struggled hard for
such courage as I might attain by deadening myself to the danger I was
in by inflicting intense pain on myself. You have often asked me the
reason of that mark on my hand; it was where, in my agony, I bit out a
piece of flesh with my relentless teeth, thankful for the pain, which
helped to numb my terror. I say, I was but just concealed when I heard
the window lifted, and one after another stepped over the sill, and
stood by me so close that I could have touched their feet. Then they
laughed and whispered; my brain swam so that I could not tell the
meaning of their words, but I heard my husband's laughter among the
rest--low, hissing, scornful--as he kicked something heavy that they
had dragged in over the floor, and which lay near me; so near, that my
husband's kick, in touching it, touched me too. I don't know why--I
can't tell how--but some feeling, and not curiosity, prompted me to
put out my hand, ever so softly, ever so little, and feel in the
darkness for what lay spurned beside me. I stole my groping palm upon
the clenched and chilly hand of a corpse!

Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness of thought. Till
this moment I had almost forgotten Amante; now I planned with feverish
rapidity how I could give her a warning not to return; or rather, I
should say, I tried to plan, for all my projects were utterly futile,
as I might have seen from the first. I could only hope she would hear
the voices of those who were now busy in trying to kindle a light,
swearing awful oaths at the mislaid articles which would have enabled
them to strike fire. I heard her step outside coming nearer and
nearer; I saw from my hiding-place the line of light beneath the door
more and more distinctly; close to it her footstep paused; the men
inside--at the time I thought they had been only two, but I found out
afterwards there were three--paused in their endeavours, and were
quite still, as breathless as myself, I suppose. Then she slowly
pushed the door open with gentle motion, to save her flickering candle
from being again extinguished. For a moment all was still. Then I
heard my husband say, as he advanced towards her (he wore riding-
boots, the shape of which I knew well, as I could see them in the
light),--

'Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my private room?'

He stood between her and the dead body of a man, from which ghastly
heap I shrank away as it almost touched me, so close were we all
together. I could not tell whether she saw it or not; I could give her
no warning, nor make any dumb utterance of signs to bid her what to
say--if, indeed, I knew myself what would be best for her to say.

Her voice was quite changed when she spoke; quite hoarse, and very
low; yet it was steady enough as she said, what was the truth, that
she had come to look for a letter which she believed had arrived for
me from Germany. Good, brave Amante! Not a word about me. M. de la
Tourelle answered with a grim blasphemy and a fearful threat. He would
have no one prying into his premises; madame should have her letters,
if there were any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he
thought it well to give them to her at all. As for Amante, this was
her first warning, but it was also her last; and, taking the candle
out of her hand, he turned her out of the room, his companions
discreetly making a screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep
shadow. I heard the key turn in the door after her--if I had ever had
any thought of escape it was gone now. I only hoped that whatever was
to befall me might soon be over, for the tension of nerve was growing
more than I could bear. The instant she could be supposed to be out of
hearing, two voices began speaking in the most angry terms to my
husband, upbraiding him for not having detained her, gagged her--nay,
one was for killing her, saying he had seen her eye fall on the face
of the dead man, whom he how kicked in his passion. Though the form of
their speech was as if they were speaking to equals, yet in their tone
there was something of fear. I am sure my husband was their superior,
or captain, or somewhat. He replied to them almost as if he were
scoffing at them, saying it was such an expenditure of labour having
to do with fools; that, ten to one, the woman was only telling the
simple truth, and that she was frightened enough by discovering her
master in his room to be thankful to escape and return to her
mistress, to whom he could easily explain on the morrow how he
happened to return in the dead of night. But his companions fell to
cursing me, and saying that since M. de la Tourelle had been married
he was fit for nothing but to dress himself fine and scent himself
with perfume; that, as for me, they could have got him twenty girls
prettier, and with far more spirit in them. He quietly answered that I
suited him, and that was enough. All this time they were doing
something--I could not see what--to the corpse; sometimes they were
too busy rifling the dead body, I believe, to talk; again they let it
fall with a heavy, resistless thud, and took to quarrelling. They
taunted my husband with angry vehemence, enraged at his scoffing and
scornful replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding up his poor dead
victim, the better to strip him of whatever he wore that was valuable,
I heard my husband laugh just as he had done when exchanging repartees
in the little salon of the Rupprechts at Karlsruhe. I hated and
dreaded him from that moment. At length, as if to make an end of the
subject, he said, with cool determination in his voice,--

'Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this talking, when you
know in your hearts that, if I suspected my wife of knowing more than
I chose of my affairs, she would not outlive the day? Remember
Victorine. Because she merely joked about my affairs in an imprudent
manner, and rejected my advice to keep a prudent tongue--to see what
she liked, but ask nothing and say nothing--she has gone a long
journey--longer than to Paris.'

'But this one is different to her; we knew all that Madame Victorine
knew, she was such a chatterbox; but this one may find out a vast
deal, and never breathe a word about it, she is so sly. Some fine day
we may have the country raised, and the gendarmes down upon us from
Strasburg, and all owing to your pretty doll, with her cunning ways of
coming over you.'

I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from his contemptuous
indifference, for he ground an oath through his teeth, and said,
'Feel! this dagger is sharp, Henri. If my wife breathes a word, and I
am such a fool as not to have stopped her mouth effectually before she
can bring down gendarmes upon us, just let that good steel find its
way to my heart. Let her guess but one tittle, let her have but one
slight suspicion that I am not a grand proprietaire, much less imagine
that I am a chief of Chauffeurs, and she follows Victorine on the long
journey beyond Paris that very day.'

'She'll outwit you yet; or I never judged women well. Those still
silent ones are the devil. She'll be off during some of your absences,
having picked out some secret that will break us all on the wheel.'

'Bah!' said his voice; and then in a minute he added, 'Let her go if
she will. But, where she goes, I will follow; so don't cry before
you're hurt.'

By this time, they had nearly stripped the body; and the conversation
turned on what they should do with it. I learnt that the dead man was
the Sieur de Poissy, a neighbouring gentleman, whom I had often heard
of as hunting with my husband. I had never seen him, but they spoke as
if he had come upon them while they were robbing some Cologne
merchant, torturing him after the cruel practice of the Chauffeurs, by
roasting the feet of their victims in order to compel them to reveal
any hidden circumstances connected with their wealth, of which the
Chauffeurs afterwards made use; and this Sieur de Poissy coming down
upon them, and recognizing M. de la Tourelle, they had killed him, and
brought him thither after nightfall. I heard him whom I called my
husband laugh his little light laugh as he spoke of the way in which
the dead body had been strapped before one of the riders, in such a
way that it appeared to any passer-by as if, in truth, the murderer
were tenderly supporting some sick person. He repeated some mocking
reply of double meaning, which he himself had given to someone who
made inquiry. He enjoyed the play upon words, softly applauding his
own wit. And all the time the poor helpless outstretched arms of the
dead lay close to his dainty boot! Then another stooped (my heart
stopped beating), and picked up a letter lying on the ground--a letter
that had dropped out of M. de Poissy's pocket--a letter from his wife,
full of tender words of endearment and pretty babblings of love. This
was read aloud, with coarse ribald comments on every sentence, each
trying to outdo the previous speaker. When they came to some pretty
words about a sweet Maurice, their little child away with its mother
on some visit, they laughed at M. de la Tourelle, and told him that he
would be hearing such woman's drivelling some day. Up to that moment,
I think, I had only feared him, but his unnatural, half-ferocious
reply made me hate even more than I dreaded him. But now they grew
weary of their savage merriment; the jewels and watch had been
apprised, the money and papers examined; and apparently there was some
necessity for the body being interred quietly and before daybreak.
They had not dared to leave him where he was slain for fear lest
people should come and recognize him, and raise the hue and cry upon
them. For they all along spoke as if it was their constant endeavour
to keep the immediate neighbourhood of Les Rochers in the most orderly
and tranquil condition, so as never to give cause for visits from the
gendarmes. They disputed a little as to whether they should make their
way into the castle larder through the gallery, and satisfy their
hunger before the hasty interment, or afterwards. I listened with
eager feverish interest as soon as this meaning of their speeches
reached my hot and troubled brain, for at the time the words they
uttered seemed only to stamp themselves with terrible force on my
memory, so that I could hardly keep from repeating them aloud like a
dull, miserable, unconscious echo; but my brain was numb to the sense
of what they said, unless I myself were named, and then, I suppose,
some instinct of self-preservation stirred within me, and quickened my
sense. And how I strained my ears, and nerved my hands and limbs,
beginning to twitch with convulsive movements, which I feared might
betray me! I gathered every word they spoke, not knowing which
proposal to wish for, but feeling that whatever was finally decided
upon, my only chance of escape was drawing near. I once feared lest my
husband should go to his bedroom before I had had that one chance, in
which case he would most likely have perceived my absence. He said
that his hands were soiled (I shuddered, for it might be with life-
blood), and he would go and cleanse them; but some bitter jest turned
his purpose, and he left the room with the other two--left it by the
gallery door. Left me alone in the dark with the stiffening corpse!

Now, now was my time, if ever; and yet I could not move. It was not my
cramped and stiffened joints that crippled me, it was the sensation of
that dead man's close presence. I almost fancied--I almost fancy
still--I heard the arm nearest to me move; lift itself up, as if once
more imploring, and fall in dead despair. At that fancy--if fancy it
were--I screamed aloud in mad terror, and the sound of my own strange
voice broke the spell. I drew myself to the side of the table farthest
from the corpse, with as much slow caution as if I really could have
feared the clutch of that poor dead arm, powerless for evermore. I
softly raised myself up, and stood sick and trembling, holding by the
table, too dizzy to know what to do next. I nearly fainted, when a low
voice spoke--when Amante, from the outside of the door, whispered,
'Madame!' The faithful creature had been on the watch, had heard my
scream, and having seen the three ruffians troop along the gallery
down the stairs, and across the court to the offices in the other wing
of the castle, she had stolen to the door of the room in which I was.
The sound of her voice gave me strength; I walked straight towards it,
as one benighted on a dreary moor, suddenly perceiving the small
steady light which tells of human dwellings, takes heart, and steers
straight onward. Where I was, where that voice was, I knew not; but go
to it I must, or die. The door once opened--I know not by which of
us--I fell upon her neck, grasping her tight, till my hands ached with
the tension of their hold. Yet she never uttered a word. Only she took
me up in her vigorous arms, and bore me to my room, and laid me on my
bed. I do not know more; as soon as I was placed there I lost sense; I
came to myself with a horrible dread lest my husband was by me, with a
belief that he was in the room, in hiding, waiting to hear my first
words, watching for the least sign of the terrible knowledge I
possessed to murder me. I dared not breathe quicker, I measured and
timed each heavy inspiration; I did not speak, nor move, nor even open
my eyes, for long after I was in my full, my miserable senses. I heard
someone treading softly about the room, as if with a purpose, not as
if for curiosity, or merely to beguile the time; someone passed in and
out of the salon; and I still lay quiet, feeling as if death were
inevitable, but wishing that the agony of death were past. Again
faintness stole over me; but just as I was sinking into the horrible
feeling of nothingness, I heard Amante's voice close to me, saying--

'Drink this, madame, and let us be gone. All is ready.'

I let her put her arm under my head and raise me, and pour something
down my throat. All the time she kept talking in a quiet, measured
voice, unlike her own, so dry and authoritative; she told me that a
suit of her clothes lay ready for me, that she herself was as much
disguised as the circumstances permitted her to be, that what
provisions I had left from my supper were stowed away in her pockets,
and so she went on, dwelling on little details of the most commonplace
description, but never alluding for an instant to the fearful cause
why flight was necessary. I made no inquiry as to how she knew, or
what she knew. I never asked her either then or afterwards, I could
not bear it--we kept our dreadful secret close. But I suppose she must
have been in the dressing-room adjoining, and heard all.

In fact, I dared not speak even to her, as if there were anything
beyond the most common event in life in our preparing thus to leave
the house of blood by stealth in the dead of night. She gave me
directions--short condensed directions, without reasons--just as you
do to a child; and like a child I obeyed her. She went often to the
door and listened; and often, too, she went to the window, and looked
anxiously out. For me, I saw nothing but her, and I dared not let my
eyes wander from her for a minute; and I heard nothing in the deep
midnight silence but her soft movements, and the heavy beating of my
own heart. At last she took my hand, and led me in the dark through
the salon, once more into the terrible gallery, where across the black
darkness the windows admitted pale sheeted ghosts of light upon the
floor. Clinging to her I went; unquestioning--for she was human
sympathy to me after the isolation of my unspeakable terror. On we
went, turning to the left instead of to the right, past my suite of
sitting-rooms where the gilding was red with blood, into that unknown
wing of the castle that fronted the main road lying parallel far
below. She guided me along the basement passages to which we had now
descended, until we came to a little open door, through which the air
blew chill and cold, bringing for the first time a sensation of life
to me. The door led into a kind of cellar, through which we groped our
way to an opening like a window, but which, instead of being glazed,
was only fenced with iron bars, two of which were loose, as Amante
evidently knew, for she took them out with the ease of one who had
performed the action often before, and then helped me to follow her
out into the free, open air.

We stole round the end of the building, and on turning the corner--
she first--I felt her hold on me tighten for an instant, and the next
step I, too, heard distant voices, and the blows of a spade upon the
heavy soil, for the night was very warm and still.

We had not spoken a word; we did not speak now. Touch was safer and as
expressive. She turned down towards the high road; I followed. I did
not know the path; we stumbled again and again, and I was much
bruised; so doubtless was she; but bodily pain did me good. At last,
we were on the plainer path of the high road.

I had such faith in her that I did not venture to speak, even when she
paused, as wondering to which hand she should turn. But now, for the
first time, she spoke:--

'Which way did you come when he brought you here first?'

I pointed, I could not speak.

We turned in the opposite direction; still going along the high road.
In about an hour, we struck up to the mountainside, scrambling far up
before we even dared to rest; far up and away again before day had
fully dawned. Then we looked about for some place of rest and
concealment: and now we dared to speak in whispers. Amante told me
that she had locked the door of communication between his bedroom and
mine, and, as in a dream, I was aware that she had also locked and
brought away the key of the door between the latter and the salon.

'He will have been too busy this night to think much about you--he
will suppose you are asleep--I shall be the first to be missed; but
they will only just now be discovering our loss.'

I remember those last words of hers made me pray to go on; I felt as
if we were losing precious time in thinking either of rest or
concealment; but she hardly replied to me, so busy was she in seeking
out some hiding-place. At length, giving it up in despair, we
proceeded onwards a little way; the mountainside sloped downwards
rapidly, and in the full morning light we saw ourselves in a narrow
valley, made by a stream which forced its way along it. About a mile
lower down there rose the pale blue smoke of a village, a mill-wheel
was lashing up the water close at hand, though out of sight. Keeping
under the cover of every sheltering tree or bush, we worked our way
down past the mill, down to a one-arched bridge, which doubtless
formed part of the road between the village and the mill.

'This will do,' said she; and we crept under the space, and climbing a
little way up the rough stonework, we seated ourselves on a projecting
ledge, and crouched in the deep damp shadow. Amante sat a little above
me, and made me lay my head on her lap. Then she fed me, and took some
food herself; and opening out her great dark cloak, she covered up
every light-coloured speck about us; and thus we sat, shivering and
shuddering, yet feeling a kind of rest through it all, simply from the
fact that motion was no longer imperative, and that during the
daylight our only chance of safety was to be still. But the damp
shadow in which we were sitting was blighting, from the circumstance
of the sunlight never penetrating there; and I dreaded lest, before
night and the time for exertion again came on, I should feel illness
creeping all over me. To add to our discomfort, it had rained the
whole day long, and the stream, fed by a thousand little mountain
brooklets, began to swell into a torrent, rushing over the stones with
a perpetual and dizzying noise.

Every now and then I was wakened from the painful doze into which I
continually fell, by a sound of horses' feet over our head: sometimes
lumbering heavily as if dragging a burden, sometimes rattling and
galloping, and with the sharper cry of men's voices coming cutting
through the roar of the waters. At length, day fell. We had to drop
into the stream, which came above our knees as we waded to the bank.
There we stood, stiff and shivering. Even Amante's courage seemed to
fail.

'We must pass this night in shelter, somehow,' said she. For indeed
the rain was coming down pitilessly. I said nothing. I thought that
surely the end must be death in some shape; and I only hoped that to
death might not be added the terror of the cruelty of men. In a minute
or so she had resolved on her course of action. We went up the stream
to the mill. The familiar sounds, the scent of the wheat, the flour
whitening the walls--all reminded me of home, and it seemed to me as
if I must struggle out of this nightmare and waken, and find myself
once more a happy girl by the Neckar-side. They were long in unbarring
the door at which Amante had knocked: at length, an old feeble voice
inquired who was there, and what was sought? Amante answered shelter
from the storm for two women; but the old woman replied, with
suspicious hesitation, that she was sure it was a man who was asking
for shelter, and that she could not let us in. But at length she
satisfied herself, and unbarred the heavy door, and admitted us. She
was nor an unkindly woman; but her thoughts all travelled in one
circle, and that was, that her master, the miller, had told her on no
account to let any man into the place during his absence, and that she
did not know if he would not think two women as bad; and yet that as
we were not men, no one could say she had disobeyed him, for it was a
shame to let a dog be out such a night as this. Amante, with ready
wit, told her to let no one know that we had taken shelter there that
night, and that then her master could not blame her; and while she was
thus enjoining secrecy as the wisest course, with a view to far other
people than the miller, she was hastily helping me to take off my wet
clothes, and spreading them, as well as the brown mantle that had
covered us both, before the great stove which warmed the room with the
effectual heat that the old woman's failing vitality required. All
this time the poor creature was discussing with herself as to whether
she had disobeyed orders, in a kind of garrulous way that made me fear
much for her capability of retaining anything secret if she was
questioned. By-and-by, she wandered away to an unnecessary revelation
of her master's whereabouts: gone to help in the search for his
landlord, the Sieur de Poissy, who lived at the chateau just above,
and who had not returned from his chase the day before; so the
intendant imagined he might have met with some accident, and had
summoned the neighbours to beat the forest and the hillside. She told
us much besides, giving us to understand that she would fain meet with
a place as housekeeper where there were more servants and less to do,
as her life here was very lonely and dull, especially since her
master's son had gone away--gone to the wars. She then took her
supper, which was evidently apportioned out to her with a sparing
hand, as, even if the idea had come into her head, she had not enough
to offer us any. Fortunately, warmth was all that we required, and
that, thanks to Amante's cares, was returning to our chilled bodies.
After supper, the old woman grew drowsy; but she seemed uncomfortable
at the idea of going to sleep and leaving us still in the house.
Indeed, she gave us pretty broad hints as to the propriety of our
going once more out into the bleak and stormy night; but we begged to
be allowed to stay under shelter of some kind; and, at last, a bright
idea came over her, and she bade us mount by a ladder to a kind of
loft, which went half over the lofty mill-kitchen in which we were
sitting. We obeyed her--what else could we do?--and found ourselves in
a spacious floor, without any safeguard or wall, boarding, or railing,
to keep us from falling over into the kitchen in case we went too near
the edge. It was, in fact, the store-room or garret for the household.
There was bedding piled up, boxes and chests, mill sacks, the winter
store of apples and nuts, bundles of old clothes, broken furniture,
and many other things. No sooner were we up there, than the old woman
dragged the ladder, by which we had ascended, away with a chuckle, as
if she was now secure that we could do no mischief, and sat herself
down again once more, to doze and await her master's return. We pulled
out some bedding, and gladly laid ourselves down in our dried clothes
and in some warmth, hoping to have the sleep we so much needed to
refresh us and prepare us for the next day. But I could not sleep, and
I was aware, from her breathing, that Amante was equally wakeful. We
could both see through the crevices between the boards that formed the
flooring into the kitchen below, very partially lighted by the common
lamp that hung against the wall near the stove on the opposite side to
that on which we were.




Portion III

Far on in the night there were voices outside reached us in our
hiding-place; an angry knocking at the door, and we saw through the
chinks the old woman rouse herself up to go and open it for her
master, who came in, evidently half drunk. To my sick horror, he was
followed by Lefebvre, apparently as sober and wily as ever. They were
talking together as they came in, disputing about something; but the
miller stopped the conversation to swear at the old woman for having
fallen asleep, and, with tipsy anger, and even with blows, drove the
poor old creature out of the kitchen to bed. Then he and Lefebvre went
on talking--about the Sieur de Poissy's disappearance. It seemed that
Lefebvre had been out all day, along with other of my husband's men,
ostensibly assisting in the search; in all probability trying to blind
the Sieur de Poissy's followers by putting them on a wrong scent, and
also, I fancied, from one or two of Lefebvre's sly questions,
combining the hidden purpose of discovering us.

Although the miller was tenant and vassal to the Sieur de Poissy, he
seemed to me to be much more in league with the people of M. de la
Tourelle. He was evidently aware, in part, of the life which Lefebvre
and the others led; although, again, I do not suppose he knew or
imagined one-half of their crimes; and also, I think, he was seriously
interested in discovering the fate of his master, little suspecting
Lefebvre of murder or violence. He kept talking himself, and letting
out all sorts of thoughts and opinions; watched by the keen eyes of
Lefebvre gleaming out below his shaggy eyebrows. It was evidently not
the cue of the latter to let out that his master's wife had escaped
from that vile and terrible den; but though he never breathed a word
relating to us, not the less was I certain he was thirsting for our
blood, and lying in wait for us at every turn of events. Presently he
got up and took his leave; and the miller bolted him out, and stumbled
off to bed. Then we fell asleep, and slept sound and long.

The next morning, when I awoke, I saw Amante, half raised, resting on
one hand, and eagerly gazing, with straining eyes, into the kitchen
below. I looked too, and both heard and saw the miller and two of his
men eagerly and loudly talking about the old woman, who had not
appeared as usual to make the fire in the stove, and prepare her
master's breakfast, and who now, late on in the morning, had been
found dead in her bed; whether from the effect of her master's blows
the night before, or from natural causes, who can tell? The miller's
conscience upbraided him a little, I should say, for he was eagerly
declaring his value for his housekeeper, and repeating how often she
had spoken of the happy life she led with him. The men might have
their doubts, but they did not wish to offend the miller, and all
agreed that the necessary steps should be taken for a speedy funeral.
And so they went out, leaving us in our loft, but so much alone, that,
for the first time almost, we ventured to speak freely, though still
in a hushed voice, pausing to listen continually. Amante took a more
cheerful view of the whole occurrence than I did. She said that, had
the old woman lived, we should have had to depart that morning, and
that this quiet departure would have been the best thing we could have
had to hope for, as, in all probability, the housekeeper would have
told her master of us and of our resting-place, and this fact would,
sooner or later, have been brought to the knowledge of those from whom
we most desired to keep it concealed; but that now we had time to
rest, and a shelter to rest in, during the first hot pursuit, which we
knew to a fatal certainty was being carried on. The remnants of our
food, and the stored-up fruit, would supply us with provision; the
only thing to be feared was, that something might be required from the
loft, and the miller or someone else mount up in search of it. But
even then, with a little arrangement of boxes and chests, one part
might be so kept in shadow that we might yet escape observation. All
this comforted me a little; but, I asked, how were we ever to escape?
The ladder was taken away, which was our only means of descent. But
Amante replied that she could make a sufficient ladder of the rope
lying coiled among other things, to drop us down the ten feet or so--
with the advantage of its being portable, so that we might carry it
away, and thus avoid all betrayal of the fact that anyone had ever
been hidden in the loft.

During the two days that intervened before we did escape, Amante made
good use of her time. She looked into every box and chest during the
man's absence at his mill; and finding in one box an old suit of man's
clothes, which had probably belonged to the miller's absent son, she
put them on to see if they would fit her; and, when she found that
they did, she cut her own hair to the shortness of a man's, made me
clip her black eyebrows as close as though they had been shaved, and
by cutting up old corks into pieces such as would go into her cheeks,
she altered both the shape of her face and her voice to a degree which
I should not have believed possible.

All this time I lay like one stunned; my body resting, and renewing
its strength, but I myself in an almost idiotic state--else surely I
could not have taken the stupid interest which I remember I did in all
Amante's energetic preparations for disguise. I absolutely recollect
once the feeling of a smile coming over my stiff face as some new
exercise of her cleverness proved a success.

But towards the second day, she required me, too, to exert myself; and
then all my heavy despair returned. I let her dye my fair hair and
complexion with the decaying shells of the stored-up walnuts, I let
her blacken my teeth, and even voluntarily broke a front tooth the
better to effect my disguise. But through it all I had no hope of
evading my terrible husband. The third night the funeral was over, the
drinking ended, the guests gone; the miller put to bed by his men,
being too drunk to help himself. They stopped a little while in the
kitchen, talking and laughing about the new housekeeper likely to
come; and they, too, went off, shutting, but not locking the door.
Everything favoured us. Amante had tried her ladder on one of the two
previous nights, and could, by a dexterous throw from beneath,
unfasten it from the hook to which it was fixed, when it had served
its office; she made up a bundle of worthless old clothes in order
that we might the better preserve our characters of a travelling
pedlar and his wife; she stuffed a hump on her back, she thickened my
figure, she left her own clothes deep down beneath a heap of others in
the chest from which she had taken the man's dress which she wore; and
with a few francs in her pocket--the sole money we had either of us
had about us when we escaped--we let ourselves down the ladder,
unhooked it, and passed into the cold darkness of night again.

We had discussed the route which it would be well for us to take while
we lay perdues in our loft. Amante had told me then that her reason
for inquiring, when we first left Les Rochers, by which way I had
first been brought to it, was to avoid the pursuit which she was sure
would first be made in the direction of Germany; but that now she
thought we might return to that district of country where my German
fashion of speaking French would excite least observation. I thought
that Amante herself had something peculiar in her accent, which I had
heard M. de la Tourelle sneer at as Norman patois; but I said not a
word beyond agreeing to her proposal that we should bend our steps
towards Germany. Once there, we should, I thought, be safe. Alas! I
forgot the unruly time that was overspreading all Europe, overturning
all law, and all the protection which law gives.

How we wandered--not daring to ask our way--how we lived, how we
struggled through many a danger and still more terrors of danger, I
shall not tell you now. I will only relate two of our adventures
before we reached Frankfurt. The first, although fatal to an innocent
lady, was yet, I believe, the cause of my safety; the second I shall
tell you, that you may understand why I did not return to my former
home, as I had hoped to do when we lay in the miller's loft, and I
first became capable of groping after an idea of what my future life
might be. I cannot tell you how much in these doubtings and wanderings
I became attached to Amante. I have sometimes feared since, lest I
cared for her only because she was so necessary to my own safety; but,
no! it was not so; or not so only, or principally. She said once that
she was flying for her own life as well as for mine; but we dared not
speak much on our danger, or on the horrors that had gone before. We
planned a little what was to be our future course; but even for that
we did not look forward long; how could we, when every day we scarcely
knew if we should see the sun go down? For Amante knew or conjectured
far more than I did of the atrocity of the gang to which M. de la
Tourelle belonged; and every now and then, just as we seemed to be
sinking into the calm of security, we fell upon traces of a pursuit
after us in all directions. Once I remember--we must have been nearly
three weeks wearily walking through unfrequented ways, day after day,
not daring to make inquiry as to our whereabouts, nor yet to seem
purposeless in our wanderings--we came to a kind of lonely roadside
farrier's and blacksmith's. I was so tired, that Amante declared that,
come what might, we would stay there all night; and accordingly she
entered the house, and boldly announced herself as a travelling
tailor, ready to do any odd jobs of work that might be required, for a
night's lodging and food for herself and wife. She had adopted this
plan once or twice before, and with good success; for her father had
been a tailor in Rouen, and as a girl she had often helped him with
his work, and knew the tailors' slang and habits, down to the
particular whistle and cry which in France tells so much to those of a
trade. At this blacksmith's, as at most other solitary houses far away
from a town, there was not only a store of men's clothes laid by as
wanting mending when the housewife could afford time, but there was a
natural craving after news from a distance, such news as a wandering
tailor is bound to furnish. The early November afternoon was closing
into evening, as we sat down, she cross-legged on the great table in
the blacksmith's kitchen, drawn close to the window, I close behind
her, sewing at another part of the same garment, and from time to time
well scolded by my seeming husband. All at once she turned round to
speak to me. It was only one word, 'Courage!' I had seen nothing; I
sat out of the light; but I turned sick for an instant, and then I
braced myself up into a strange strength of endurance to go through I
knew not what.

The blacksmith's forge was in a shed beside the house, and fronting
the road. I heard the hammers stop plying their continual rhythmical
beat. She had seen why they ceased. A rider had come up to the forge
and dismounted, leading his horse in to be reshod. The broad red light
of the forge-fire had revealed the face of the rider to Amante, and
she apprehended the consequence that really ensued.

The rider, after some words with the blacksmith, was ushered in by him
into the house-place where we sat.

'Here, good wife, a cup of wine and some galette for this gentleman.'

'Anything, anything, madame, that I can eat and drink in my hand while
my horse is being shod. I am in haste, and must get on to Forbach
tonight.'

The blacksmith's wife lighted her lamp; Amante had asked her for it
five minutes before. How thankful we were that she had not more
speedily complied with our request! As it was, we sat in dusk shadow,
pretending to stitch away, but scarcely able to see. The lamp was
placed on the stove, near which my husband, for it was he, stood and
warmed himself. By-and-by he turned round, and looked all over the
room, taking us in with about the same degree of interest as the
inanimate furniture. Amante, cross-legged, fronting him, stooped over
her work, whistling softly all the while. He turned again to the
stove, impatiently rubbing his hands. He had finished his wine and
galette, and wanted to be off.

'I am in haste, my good woman. Ask thy husband to get on more quickly.
I will pay him double if he makes haste.'

The woman went out to do his bidding; and he once more turned round to
face us. Amante went on to the second part of the tune. He took it up,
whistled a second for an instant or so, and then the blacksmith's wife
re-entering, he moved towards her, as if to receive her answer the
more speedily.

'One moment, monsieur--only one moment. There was a nail out of the
off-foreshoe which my husband is replacing; it would delay monsieur
again if that shoe also came off.'

'Madame is right,' said he, 'but my haste is urgent. If madame knew my
reasons, she would pardon my impatience. Once a happy husband, now a
deserted and betrayed man, I pursue a wife on whom I lavished all my
love, but who has abused my confidence, and fled from my house,
doubtless to some paramour; carrying off with her all the jewels and
money on which she could lay her hands. It is possible madame may have
heard or seen something of her; she was accompanied in her flight by a
base, profligate woman from Paris, whom I, unhappy man, had myself
engaged for my wife's waiting-maid, little dreaming what corruption I
was bringing into my house!'

'Is it possible?' said the good woman, throwing up her hands.

Amante went on whistling a little lower, out of respect to the
conversation.

'However, I am tracing the wicked fugitives; I am on their track' (and
the handsome, effeminate face looked as ferocious as any demon's).
'They will not escape me; but every minute is a minute of misery to
me, till I meet my wife. Madame has sympathy, has she not?'

He drew his face into a hard, unnatural smile, and then both went out
to the forge, as if once more to hasten the blacksmith over his work.

Amante stopped her whistling for one instant.

'Go on as you are, without change of an eyelid even; in a few minutes
he will be gone, and it will be over!'

It was a necessary caution, for I was on the point of giving way, and
throwing myself weakly upon her neck. We went on; she whistling and
stitching, I making semblance to sew. And it was well we did so; for
almost directly he came back for his whip, which he had laid down and
forgotten; and again I felt one of those sharp, quick-scanning
glances, sent all round the room, and taking in all.

Then we heard him ride away; and then, it had been long too dark to
see well, I dropped my work, and gave way to my trembling and
shuddering. The blacksmith's wife returned. She was a good creature.
Amante told her I was cold and weary, and she insisted on my stopping
my work, and going to sit near the stove; hastening, at the same time,
her preparations for supper, which, in honour of us, and of monsieur's
liberal payment, was to be a little less frugal than ordinary. It was
well for me that she made me taste a little of the cider-soup she was
preparing, or I could not have held up, in spite of Amante's warning
look, and the remembrance of her frequent exhortations to act
resolutely up to the characters we had assumed, whatever befell. To
cover my agitation, Amante stopped her whistling, and began to talk;
and, by the time the blacksmith came in, she and the good woman of the
house were in full flow. He began at once upon the handsome gentleman,
who had paid him so well; all his sympathy was with him, and both he
and his wife only wished he might overtake his wicked wife, and punish
her as she deserved. And then the conversation took a turn, not
uncommon to those whose lives are quiet and monotonous; everyone
seemed to vie with each other in telling about some horror; and the
savage and mysterious band of robbers called the Chauffeurs, who
infested all the roads leading to the Rhine, with Schinderhannes at
their head, furnished many a tale which made the very marrow of my
bones run cold, and quenched even Amante's power of talking. Her eyes
grew large and wild, her cheeks blanched, and for once she sought by
her looks help from me. The new call upon me roused me. I rose and
said, with their permission my husband and I would seek our bed, for
that we had travelled far and were early risers. I added that we would
get up betimes, and finish our piece of work. The blacksmith said we
should be early birds if we rose before him; and the good wife
seconded my proposal with kindly bustle. One other such story as those
they had been relating, and I do believe Amante would have fainted.

As it was, a night's rest set her up; we arose and finished our work
betimes, and shared the plentiful breakfast of the family. Then we had
to set forth again; only knowing that to Forbach we must not go, yet
believing, as was indeed the case, that Forbach lay between us and
that Germany to which we were directing our course. Two days more we
wandered on, making a round, I suspect, and returning upon the road to
Forbach, a league or two nearer to that town than the blacksmith's
house. But as we never made inquiries I hardly knew where we were,
when we came one night to a small town, with a good large rambling inn
in the very centre of the principal street. We had begun to feel as if
there were more safety in towns than in the loneliness of the country.
As we had parted with a ring of mine not many days before to a
travelling jeweller, who was too glad to purchase it far below its
real value to make many inquiries as to how it came into the
possession of a poor working tailor, such as Amante seemed to be, we
resolved to stay at this inn all night, and gather such particulars
and information as we could by which to direct our onward course.

We took our supper in the darkest corner of the salle-a-manger, having
previously bargained for a small bedroom across the court, and over
the stables. We needed food sorely; but we hurried on our meal from
dread of anyone entering that public room who might recognize us. Just
in the middle of our meal, the public diligence drove lumbering up
under the porte-cochere, and disgorged its passengers. Most of them
turned into the room where we sat, cowering and fearful, for the door
was opposite to the porter's lodge, and both opened on to the wide-
covered entrance from the street. Among the passengers came in a
young, fair-haired lady, attended by an elderly French maid. The poor
young creature tossed her head, and shrank away from the common room,
full of evil smells and promiscuous company, and demanded, in German
French, to be taken to some private apartment. We heard that she and
her maid had come in the coupe, and, probably from pride, poor young
lady! she had avoided all association with her fellow-passengers,
thereby exciting their dislike and ridicule. All these little pieces
of hearsay had a significance to us afterwards, though, at the time,
the only remark made that bore upon the future was Amante's whisper to
me that the young lady's hair was exactly the colour of mine, which
she had cut off and burnt in the stove in the miller's kitchen in one
of her descents from our hiding-place in the loft.

As soon as we could, we struck round in the shadow, leaving the
boisterous and merry fellow-passengers to their supper. We crossed the
court, borrowed a lantern from the ostler, and scrambled up the rude
steps to our chamber above the stable. There was no door into it; the
entrance was the hole into which the ladder fitted. The window looked
into the court. We were tired and soon fell asleep. I was wakened by a
noise in the stable below. One instant of listening, and I wakened
Amante, placing my hand on her mouth, to prevent any exclamation in
her half-roused state. We heard my husband speaking about his horse to
the ostler. It was his voice. I am sure of it. Amante said so too. We
durst not move to rise and satisfy ourselves. For five minutes or so
he went on giving directions. Then he left the stable, and, softly
stealing to our window, we saw him cross the court and re-enter the
inn. We consulted as to what we should do. We feared to excite remark
or suspicion by descending and leaving our chamber, or else immediate
escape was our strongest idea. Then the ostler left the stable,
locking the door on the outside.

'We must try and drop through the window--if, indeed, it is well to go
at all,' said Amante.

With reflection came wisdom. We should excite suspicion by leaving
without paying our bill. We were on foot, and might easily be pursued.
So we sat on our bed's edge, talking and shivering, while from across
the court the laughter rang merrily, and the company slowly dispersed
one by one, their lights flitting past the windows as they went
upstairs and settled each one to his rest.

We crept into our bed, holding each other tight, and listening to
every sound, as if we thought we were tracked, and might meet our
death at any moment. In the dead of night, just at the profound
stillness preceding the turn into another day, we heard a soft,
cautious step crossing the yard. The key into the stable was turned--
someone came into the stable--we felt rather than heard him there. A
horse started a little, and made a restless movement with his feet,
then whinnied recognition. He who had entered made two or three low
sounds to the animal, and then led him into the court. Amante sprang
to the window with the noiseless activity of a cat. She looked out,
but dared not speak a word. We heard the great door into the street
open--a pause for mounting, and the horse's footsteps were lost in
distance.

Then Amante came back to me. 'It was he! he is gone!' said she, and
once more we lay down, trembling and shaking. This time we fell sound
asleep. We slept long and late. We were wakened by many hurrying feet,
and many confused voices; all the world seemed awake and astir. We
rose and dressed ourselves, and coming down we looked around among the
crowd collected in the courtyard, in order to assure ourselves he was
not there before we left the shelter of the stable.

The instant we were seen, two or three people rushed to us.

'Have you heard?--Do you know?--That poor young lady--oh, come and
see!' and so we were hurried, almost in spite of ourselves, across the
court, and up the great open stairs of the main building of the inn,
into a bedchamber, where lay the beautiful young German lady, so full
of graceful pride the night before, now white and still in death. By
her stood the French maid, crying and gesticulating.

'Oh, madame! if you had but suffered me to stay with you! Oh! the
baron, what will he say?' and so she went on. Her state had but just
been discovered; it had been supposed that she was fatigued, and was
sleeping late, until a few minutes before. The surgeon of the town had
been sent for, and the landlord of the inn was trying vainly to
enforce order until he came, and, from time to time, drinking little
cups of brandy, and offering them to the guests, who were all
assembled there, pretty much as the servants were doing in the
courtyard.

At last the surgeon came. All fell back, and hung on the words that
were to fall from his lips.

'See!' said the landlord. 'This lady came last night by the diligence
with her maid. Doubtless, a great lady, for she must have a private
sitting-room--'

'She was Madame the Baroness de Roeder,' said the French maid.

--'And was difficult to please in the matter of supper, and a
sleeping-room. She went to bed well, though fatigued. Her maid left
her--'

'I begged to be allowed to sleep in her room, as we were in a strange
inn, of the character of which we knew nothing; but she would not let
me, my mistress was such a great lady.'

--'And slept with my servants,' continued the landlord. 'This morning
we thought madame was still slumbering; but when eight, nine, ten, and
near eleven o'clock came, I bade her maid use my pass-key, and enter
her room--'

'The door was not locked, only closed. And here she was found--dead
is she not, monsieur?--with her face down on her pillow, and her
beautiful hair all scattered wild; she never would let me tie it up,
saying it made her head ache. Such hair!' said the waiting-maid,
lifting up a long golden tress, and letting it fall again.

I remembered Amante's words the night before, and crept close up to
her.

Meanwhile, the doctor was examining the body underneath the bed-
clothes, which the landlord, until now, had not allowed to be
disarranged. The surgeon drew out his hand, all bathed and stained
with blood; and holding up a short, sharp knife, with a piece of paper
fastened round it.

'Here has been foul play,' he said. 'The deceased lady has been
murdered. This dagger was aimed straight at her heart.' Then, putting
on his spectacles, he read the writing on the bloody paper, dimmed and
horribly obscured as it was:--

NUMERO UN. Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent.

'Let us go!' said I to Amante. 'Oh, let us leave this horrible place!'

'Wait a little,' said she. 'Only a few minutes more. It will be
better.'

Immediately the voices of all proclaimed their suspicions of the
cavalier who had arrived last the night before. He had, they said,
made so many inquiries about the young lady, whose supercilious
conduct all in the salle-a-manger had been discussing on his entrance.
They were talking about her as we left the room; he must have come in
directly afterwards, and not until he had learnt all about her, had he
spoken of the business which necessitated his departure at dawn of
day, and made his arrangements with both landlord and ostler for the
possession of the keys of the stable and porte-cochere. In short,
there was no doubt as to the murderer, even before the arrival of the
legal functionary who had been sent for by the surgeon; but the word
on the paper chilled everyone with terror. Les Chauffeurs, who were
they? No one knew, some of the gang might even then be in the room
overhearing, and noting down fresh objects for vengeance. In Germany,
I had heard little of this terrible gang, and I had paid no greater
heed to the stories related once or twice about them in Karlsruhe than
one does to tales about ogres. But here in their very haunts, I learnt
the full amount of the terror they inspired. No one would be legally
responsible for any evidence criminating the murderer. The public
prosecutor shrank from the duties of his office. What do I say?
Neither Amante nor I, knowing far more of the actual guilt of the man
who had killed that poor sleeping young lady, durst breathe a word. We
appeared to be wholly ignorant of everything: we, who might have told
so much. But how could we? We were broken down with terrific anxiety
and fatigue, with the knowledge that we, above all, were doomed
victims; and that the blood, heavily dripping from the bed-clothes on
to the floor, was dripping thus out of the poor dead body, because,
when living, she had been mistaken for me.

At length Amante went up to the landlord, and asked permission to
leave his inn, doing all openly and humbly, so as to excite neither
ill-will nor suspicion. Indeed, suspicion was otherwise directed, and
he willingly gave us leave to depart. A few days afterwards we were
across the Rhine, in Germany, making our way towards Frankfurt, but
still keeping our disguises, and Amante still working at her trade.

On the way, we met a young man, a wandering journeyman from
Heidelberg. I knew him, although I did not choose that he should know
me. I asked him, as carelessly as I could, how the old miller was now?
He told me he was dead. This realization of the worst apprehensions
caused by his long silence shocked me inexpressibly. It seemed as
though every prop gave way from under me. I had been talking to Amante
only that very day of the safety and comfort of the home that awaited
her in my father's house; of the gratitude which the old man would
feel towards her; and how there, in that peaceful dwelling, far away
from the terrible land of France, she should find ease and security
for all the rest of her life. All this I thought I had to promise, and
even yet more had I looked for, for myself. I looked to the
unburdening of my heart and conscience by telling all I knew to my
best and wisest friend. I looked to his love as a sure guidance as
well as a comforting stay, and, behold, he was gone away from me for
ever!

I had left the room hastily on hearing of this sad news from the
Heidelberger. Presently, Amante followed:

'Poor madame,' said she, consoling me to the best of her ability. And
then she told me by degrees what more she had learned respecting my
home, about which she knew almost as much as I did, from my frequent
talks on the subject both at Les Rochers and on the dreary, doleful
road we had come along. She had continued the conversation after I
left, by asking about my brother and his wife. Of course, they lived
on at the mill, but the man said (with what truth I know not, but I
believed it firmly at the time) that Babette had completely got the
upper hand of my brother, who only saw through her eyes and heard with
her ears. That there had been much Heidelberg gossip of late days
about her sudden intimacy with a grand French gentleman who had
appeared at the mill--a relation, by marriage--married, in fact, to
the miller's sister, who, by all accounts, had behaved abominably and
ungratefully. But that was no reason for Babette's extreme and sudden
intimacy with him, going about everywhere with the French gentleman;
and since he left (as the Heidelberger said he knew for a fact)
corresponding with him constantly. Yet her husband saw no harm in it
all, seemingly; though, to be sure, he was so out of spirits, what
with his father's death and the news of his sister's infamy, that he
hardly knew how to hold up his head.

'Now,' said Amante, 'all this proves that M. de la Tourelle has
suspected that you would go back to the nest in which you were reared,
and that he has been there, and found that you have not yet returned;
but probably he still imagines that you will do so, and has
accordingly engaged your sister-in-law as a kind of informant. Madame
has said that her sister-in-law bore her no extreme good-will; and the
defamatory story he has got the start of us in spreading, will not
tend to increase the favour in which your sister-in-law holds you. No
doubt the assassin was retracing his steps when we met him near
Forbach, and having heard of the poor German lady, with her French
maid, and her pretty blonde complexion, he followed her. If madame
will still be guided by me--and, my child, I beg of you still to trust
me,' said Amante, breaking out of her respectful formality into the
way of talking more natural to those who had shared and escaped from
common dangers--more natural, too, where the speaker was conscious of
a power of protection which the other did not possess--'we will go on
to Frankfurt, and lose ourselves, for a time, at least, in the numbers
of people who throng a great town; and you have told me that Frankfurt
is a great town. We will still be husband and wife; we will take a
small lodging, and you shall housekeep and live indoors. I, as the
rougher and the more alert, will continue my father's trade, and seek
work at the tailors' shops.'

I could think of no better plan, so we followed this out. In a back
street at Frankfurt we found two furnished rooms to let on a sixth
story. The one we entered had no light from day; a dingy lamp swung
perpetually from the ceiling, and from that, or from the open door
leading into the bedroom beyond, came our only light. The bedroom was
more cheerful, but very small. Such as it was, it almost exceeded our
possible means. The money from the sale of my ring was almost
exhausted, and Amante was a stranger in the place, speaking only
French, moreover, and the good Germans were hating the French people
right heartily. However, we succeeded better than our hopes, and even
laid by a little against the time of my confinement. I never stirred
abroad, and saw no one, and Amante's want of knowledge of German kept
her in a state of comparative isolation.

At length my child was born--my poor worse than fatherless child. It
was a girl, as I had prayed for. I had feared lest a boy might have
something of the tiger nature of its father, but a girl seemed all my
own. And yet not all my own, for the faithful Amante's delight and
glory in the babe almost exceeded mine; in outward show it certainly
did.

We had not been able to afford any attendance beyond what a
neighbouring sage-femme could give, and she came frequently, bringing
in with her a little store of gossip, and wonderful tales culled out
of her own experience, every time. One day she began to tell me about
a great lady in whose service her daughter had lived as scullion, or
some such thing. Such a beautiful lady! with such a handsome husband.
But grief comes to the palace as well as to the garret, and why or
wherefore no one knew, but somehow the Baron de Roeder must have
incurred the vengeance of the terrible Chauffeurs; for not many months
ago, as madame was going to see her relations in Alsace, she was
stabbed dead as she lay in bed at some hotel on the road. Had I not
seen it in the Gazette? Had I not heard? Why, she had been told that
as far off as Lyons there were placards offering a heavy reward on the
part of the Baron de Roeder for information respecting the murderer of
his wife. But no one could help him, for all who could bear evidence
were in such terror of the Chauffeurs; there were hundreds of them,
she had been told, rich and poor, great gentlemen and peasants, all
leagued together by most frightful oaths to hunt to the death anyone
who bore witness against them; so that even they who survived the
tortures to which the Chauffeurs subjected many of the people whom
they plundered, dared not to recognize them again, would not dare,
even did they see them at the bar of a court of justice; for, if one
were condemned, were there not hundreds sworn to avenge his death?

I told all this to Amante, and we began to fear that if M. de la
Tourelle, or Lefebvre, or any of the gang at Les Rochers, had seen
these placards, they would know that the poor lady stabbed by the
former was the Baroness de Roeder, and that they would set forth again
in search of me.

This fresh apprehension told on my health and impeded my recovery. We
had so little money we could not call in a physician, at least, not
one in established practice. But Amante found out a young doctor for
whom, indeed, she had sometimes worked; and offering to pay him in
kind, she brought him to see me, her sick wife. He was very gentle and
thoughtful, though, like ourselves, very poor. But he gave much time
and consideration to the case, saying once to Amante that he saw my
constitution had experienced some severe shock from which it was
probable that my nerves would never entirely recover. By-and-by I
shall name this doctor, and then you will know, better than I can
describe, his character.

I grew strong in time--stronger, at least. I was able to work a little
at home, and to sun myself and my baby at the garret-window in the
roof. It was all the air I dared to take. I constantly wore the
disguise I had first set out with; as constantly had I renewed the
disfiguring dye which changed my hair and complexion. But the
perpetual state of terror in which I had been during the whole months
succeeding my escape from Les Rochers made me loathe the idea of ever
again walking in the open daylight, exposed to the sight and
recognition of every passer-by. In vain Amante reasoned--in vain the
doctor urged. Docile in every other thing, in this I was obstinate. I
would not stir out. One day Amante returned from her work, full of
news--some of it good, some such as to cause us apprehension. The good
news was this: the master for whom she worked as journeyman was going
to send her with some others to a great house at the other side of
Frankfurt, where there were to be private theatricals, and where many
new dresses and much alteration of old ones would be required. The
tailors employed were all to stay at this house until the day of
representation was over, as it was at some distance from the town, and
no one could tell when their work would be ended. But the pay was to
be proportionately good.

The other thing she had to say was this: she had that day met the
travelling jeweller to whom she and I had sold my ring. It was rather
a peculiar one, given to me by my husband; we had felt at the time
that it might be the means of tracing us, but we were penniless and
starving, and what else could we do? She had seen that this Frenchman
had recognized her at the same instant that she did him, and she
thought at the same time that there was a gleam of more than common
intelligence on his face as he did so. This idea had been confirmed by
his following her for some way on the other side of the street; but
she had evaded him with her better knowledge of the town, and the
increasing darkness of the night. Still it was well that she was going
to such a distance from our dwelling on the next day; and she had
brought me in a stock of provisions, begging me to keep within doors,
with a strange kind of fearful oblivion of the fact that I had never
set foot beyond the threshold of the house since I had first entered
it--scarce ever ventured down the stairs. But, although my poor, my
dear, very faithful Amante was like one possessed that last night, she
spoke continually of the dead, which is a bad sign for the living. She
kissed you--yes! it was you, my daughter, my darling, whom I bore
beneath my bosom away from the fearful castle of your father--I call
him so for the first time, I must call him so once again before I have
done--Amante kissed you, sweet baby, blessed little comforter, as if
she never could leave off. And then she went away, alive.

Two days, three days passed away. That third evening I was sitting
within my bolted doors--you asleep on your pillow by my side--when a
step came up the stair, and I knew it must be for me; for ours were
the topmost rooms. Someone knocked; I held my very breath. But someone
spoke, and I knew it was the good Doctor Voss. Then I crept to the
door, and answered.

'Are you alone?' asked I.

'Yes,' said he, in a still lower voice. 'Let me in.' I let him in, and
he was as alert as I in bolting and barring the door. Then he came and
whispered to me his doleful tale. He had come from the hospital in the
opposite quarter of the town, the hospital which he visited; he should
have been with me sooner, but he had feared lest he should be watched.
He had come from Amante's death-bed. Her fears of the jeweller were
too well founded. She had left the house where she was employed that
morning, to transact some errand connected with her work in the town;
she must have been followed, and dogged on her way back through
solitary wood-paths, for some of the wood-rangers belonging to the
great house had found her lying there, stabbed to death, but not dead;
with the poniard again plunged through the fatal writing, once more;
but this time with the word 'un' underlined, so as to show that the
assassin was aware of his previous mistake.

Numero Un. Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent.

They had carried her to the house, and given her restoratives till she
had recovered the feeble use of her speech. But, oh, faithful, dear
friend and sister! even then she remembered me, and refused to tell
(what no one else among her fellow workmen knew), where she lived or
with whom. Life was ebbing away fast, and they had no resource but to
carry her to the nearest hospital, where, of course, the fact of her
sex was made known. Fortunately both for her and for me, the doctor in
attendance was the very Doctor Voss whom we already knew. To him,
while awaiting her confessor, she told enough to enable him to
understand the position in which I was left; before the priest had
heard half her tale Amante was dead.

Doctor Voss told me he had made all sorts of detours, and waited thus,
late at night, for fear of being watched and followed. But I do not
think he was. At any rate, as I afterwards learnt from him, the Baron
Roeder, on hearing of the similitude of this murder with that of his
wife in every particular, made such a search after the assassins,
that, although they were not discovered, they were compelled to take
to flight for the time.

I can hardly tell you now by what arguments Dr Voss, at first merely
my benefactor, sparing me a portion of his small modicum, at length
persuaded me to become his wife. His wife he called it, I called it;
for we went through the religious ceremony too much slighted at the
time, and as we were both Lutherans, and M. de la Tourelle had
pretended to be of the reformed religion, a divorce from the latter
would have been easily procurable by German law both ecclesiastical
and legal, could we have summoned so fearful a man into any court.

The good doctor took me and my child by stealth to his modest
dwelling; and there I lived in the same deep retirement, never seeing
the full light of day, although when the dye had once passed away from
my face my husband did not wish me to renew it. There was no need; my
yellow hair was grey, my complexion was ashen-coloured, no creature
could have recognized the fresh-coloured, bright-haired young woman of
eighteen months before. The few people whom I saw knew me only as
Madame Voss; a widow much older than himself, whom Dr Voss had
secretly married. They called me the Grey Woman.

He made me give you his surname. Till now you have known no other
father--while he lived you needed no father's love. Once only, only
once more, did the old terror come upon me. For some reason which I
forget, I broke through my usual custom, and went to the window of my
room for some purpose, either to shut or to open it. Looking out into
the street for an instant, I was fascinated by the sight of M. de la
Tourelle, gay, young, elegant as ever, walking along on the opposite
side of the street. The noise I had made with the window caused him to
look up; he saw me, an old grey woman, and he did not recognize me!
Yet it was not three years since we had parted, and his eyes were keen
and dreadful like those of the lynx.

I told M. Voss, on his return home, and he tried to cheer me, but the
shock of seeing M. de la Tourelle had been too terrible for me. I was
ill for long months afterwards.

Once again I saw him. Dead. He and Lefebvre were at last caught;
hunted down by the Baron de Roeder in some of their crimes. Dr Voss
had heard of their arrest; their condemnation, their death; but he
never said a word to me, until one day he bade me show him that I
loved him by my obedience and my trust. He took me a long carriage
journey, where to I know not, for we never spoke of that day again; I
was led through a prison, into a closed courtyard, where, decently
draped in the last robes of death, concealing the marks of
decapitation, lay M. de la Tourelle, and two or three others, whom I
had known at Les Rochers.

After that conviction Dr Voss tried to persuade me to return to a more
natural mode of life, and to go out more. But although I sometimes
complied with his wish, yet the old terror was ever strong upon me,
and he, seeing what an effort it was, gave up urging me at last.

You know all the rest. How we both mourned bitterly the loss of that
dear husband and father--for such I will call him ever--and as such
you must consider him, my child, after this one revelation is over.

Why has it been made, you ask. For this reason, my child. The lover,
whom you have only known as M. Lebrun, a French artist, told me but
yesterday his real name, dropped because the bloodthirsty republicans
might consider it as too aristocratic. It is Maurice de Poissy.



THE END



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