disclaim acquaintance with Victor Berard, with `La PetiteHirondelle' or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who--"
The colour left the artist's countenance at the mention of the lattername.
"Stop!" he cried hoarsely, clutching his companion's arm, and gazingearnestly into his eyes. "What is this you say? What do you allege?"
"That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder inthe Boulevard Haussmann!"
Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixedupon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as ifthe words had not disturbed him.
"How have you discovered that, pray?" he asked, with a calmness that wasforced.
"Berard has confessed."
"God! Hugh! Then--_then you know my secret_!" he gasped hoarsely,looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.
"I do--at least, a portion of it," was the calm reply. "But you and I,Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek anexplanation from your own lips."
The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps,endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raisedhis head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.
"I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence," hesaid in a low, distinct voice.
"I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak."
"I do not doubt you--I only doubt myself."
And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands claspedbehind him.
Hugh waited.
"I know you will loathe me--that you will never again clasp my hand infriendship," said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitationin his manner which increased as he went on. "You may tell me so, too,if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circumstancesin the crime which I committed--none--"
"Hush!" cried Trethowen. "Don't speak so loud. We may be overheard."
Heedless of the warning, the artist continued--
"Does it not seem absurd that a man's whole life and ambition should beoverthrown by a mere passion for a woman?" he said bitterly. "Yet thishas been my case. You remember that soon after we first becameacquainted I went to study in Paris--but there, perhaps Berard has toldyou?"
"No; I wish to hear the true facts," replied Hugh. "Tell me all."
"Ah! the story is not an enticing one to relate," the artist resumed,with a subdued, feverish agitation. "There were three of us--Holt,Glanville, and myself--and in the Quartier Latin we led a recklessexistence, with feast and jubilee one day, and starvation the next. Wewere a free-and-easy trio in our _atelier_ on the Quai Montabello, happyin to-day and heedless of to-morrow, caring nothing for those bonds ofconventionality which degrade men into money-grubs. I had freedom,liberty, happiness, until one night at a _bal masque_ at the Bullier Imet a woman. Ah, I see you are smiling already. Well, smile on. Iwould laugh were it not that I feel the pain."
There was an intense bitterness in his tone, which showed how verykeenly he felt.
"Nay," interrupted Hugh coolly, "you mistake the meaning of my smile."
"No matter; you have every reason to smile, for it was contemptibleweakness, and that weakness was mine. I had seen many women whom theworld called beauties, and I could look upon them with indifference. Atlast--"
He paused; a lump rose in his throat, and his hands were clasped behindhim convulsively.
"At last," he went on, with a fierce passion--"at last I saw her--oureyes met. It was no fancy, no boyish imagination--it was reality. Istood before her, dumb, trembling, spellbound. I could not speak, Icould not move, the power of life seemed to have gone from me."
Again he paused--he was now standing before his friend--the bright eyesgleamed with the intensity of his passion, his lips were quivering, andhis breast rose and fell with the emotion which the painful memorycalled forth.
"Laugh, sneer, if you will," he continued wildly; "but even as I haveseen lightning strike a man dead to earth, her eyes flashed upon me, andreft me of heart, of reason, of soul."
He paused, and drew a deep sigh.
"I was mad--mad," he went on, with suppressed emotion, "and could nothelp myself. She absorbed all thought, all mind, and I was false to mytrue mistress, Art. Brush and easel were forgotten that I might seekthis woman, and with my eyes drink in her beauty that filled my veinswith poison. Her features and form were the perfection of beauty. Ah!but there--you know too well. Valerie's beauty is that of a divinestatue, and only a statue. A very goddess of loveliness, but carven incold stone. There is no heart, no life, no soul within. I saw thisthen clearly, as I see it now, yet still I loved her--I loved her!"
He flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the table,hid his face in his hands.
"Is that all?" inquired Trethowen, looking up from beneath his heavybrows.
"No, no--would to heaven that had been all. I scarcely know how, but webecame friends. We were both poor, many of our tastes were in common,and at length I prevailed upon her to visit our shabby _atelier_, whereI painted her portrait. It was my best work; I have done nothing toequal it since. She was pleased with it, and favoured me. In mymadness I cared not how the favour was obtained. I was in a mad,drunken delirium of joy, and abandoned myself to destruction. Alas! itcame. I was dashed from the threshold of paradise into the abyss ofdespair. I learned that this woman whom I worshipped as an idol was nobetter than the painted and powdered women who frequented the BalBullier and the Moulin Rouge--that she had a lover!"
He laughed a hard, bitter laugh, and then was silent.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
GABRIELLE DEBRIEGE.
A few moments' pause, and the artist resumed.
"She had admitted that she loved me," he said, in a low quivering toneof anguish. "But the fact of her relations with the rich Englishman,Nicholson, was forced on me with proof so damning that I could not shutmy eyes, even despite myself."
Pressing his hands upon his brow as if to stay the wild throbbing of hisbrain, he sat in dejection, while his breath came with difficulty. Theconfession was wrung from his heart, and the haggard expression ofanxiety and despair upon his face told of the mental agony it causedhim.
"My jealous nature somehow prompted me to seek acquaintance with thisman. Unknown to her I obtained an introduction to him, and with myfellow-student, Glanville, spent several evenings in his rooms in theBoulevard Haussmann. We drank, smoked and played cards together. Heand I often dined at the Cafe Riche, and gradually I ingratiated myselfwith him. I really don't know why I did so; it must have been due tothe devil's promptings. Holt and Glanville admired her, and I wasflattered by their envy at the favour she bestowed upon me. Ah! poorfools, they did not know the blackness of her heart. Thus things wenton for six months. Though I never looked upon Valerie with otherthoughts than those of pure, honest love, we met almost daily, sometimeswalking in the Bois, and frequently taking long excursions into thecountry, to Argenteuil, to Lagny, or Choisy-le-Roi, where we could bealone to indulge in those confidential conversations in which loversdelight."
"Was she aware that you had discovered her intrigue with this manNicholson?" asked Hugh moodily.
"Yes. One day we had taken the train to Vincennes, and we were walkingback through the wood near the Porte de Picpus, when I taxed her withit. At first she denied it; but recognising that I knew too much, burstinto tears, and admitted all. Imploring pity, she kissed my hand,assuring me that she had been the victim of circumstances, that shehated him and loved me alone. My first impulse was to abandon her, andnever look upon her face again. Yet, how could I? She was a womanafter all, and that cold, calm exterior which chilled one, despite herbeauty, might be only the mask of some fierce inward aching. She was awoman, with a woman's heart, a woman's sympathies and yearnings. I feltconfident that she was bearing some heavy burden of guilt or sorrow, andthat with agony she wore a mask that hid her secret from the wo
rld."
"A pity that, under such circumstances, you did not put an end to theacquaintanceship," Trethowen observed, without raising his head.
"Ah!" he sighed, "I was like you yourself have been, powerless in theinfluence of her presence. I knew I was a miserable fool, undeservingof pity; I knew that it was worse than madness to love her--yet still Iloved. I felt that she had been wronged, and sympathised with her. Onthe one side my reason--calm, cold, and just--pointed to the insanity ofmy affection; and on the other my heart and Soul. Under the attractionof her beauty, dragged me towards her. I was determined to conquer;nevertheless, when she was near me I was a mere automaton, moving as sheindicated, and executing her every desire. It was this