"It is useless to deny it," interrupted Hugh coolly. "Your villainy has been exposed to me. Perhaps in your endeavour to prove your innocence you will disclaim acquaintance with Victor Berard, with `La Pet.i.te Hirondelle' or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who--"

The colour left the artist's countenance at the mention of the latter name.

"Stop!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely, clutching his companion's arm, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. "What is this you say? What do you allege?"

"That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder in the Boulevard Haussmann!"

Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixed upon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as if the words had not disturbed him.

"How have you discovered that, pray?" he asked, with a calmness that was forced.

"Berard has confessed."

"G.o.d! Hugh! Then--_then you know my secret_!" he gasped hoa.r.s.ely, looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.

"I do--at least, a portion of it," was the calm reply. "But you and I, Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek an explanation from your own lips."

The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps, endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raised his head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.

"I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence," he said in a low, distinct voice.

"I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak."

"I do not doubt you--I only doubt myself."

And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands clasped behind him.

Hugh waited.

"I know you will loathe me--that you will never again clasp my hand in friendship," said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitation in his manner which increased as he went on. "You may tell me so, too, if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circ.u.mstances in the crime which I committed--none--"

"Hush!" cried Trethowen. "Don't speak so loud. We may be overheard."

Heedless of the warning, the artist continued--

"Does it not seem absurd that a man's whole life and ambition should be overthrown by a mere pa.s.sion for a woman?" he said bitterly. "Yet this has been my case. You remember that soon after we first became acquainted I went to study in Paris--but there, perhaps Berard has told you?"

"No; I wish to hear the true facts," replied Hugh. "Tell me all."

"Ah! the story is not an enticing one to relate," the artist resumed, with a subdued, feverish agitation. "There were three of us--Holt, Glanville, and myself--and in the Quartier Latin we led a reckless existence, with feast and jubilee one day, and starvation the next. We were a free-and-easy trio in our _atelier_ on the Quai Montabello, happy in to-day and heedless of to-morrow, caring nothing for those bonds of conventionality which degrade men into money-grubs. I had freedom, liberty, happiness, until one night at a _bal masque_ at the Bullier I met a woman. Ah, I see you are smiling already. Well, smile on. I would laugh were it not that I feel the pain."

There was an intense bitterness in his tone, which showed how very keenly he felt.

"Nay," interrupted Hugh coolly, "you mistake the meaning of my smile."

"No matter; you have every reason to smile, for it was contemptible weakness, and that weakness was mine. I had seen many women whom the world called beauties, and I could look upon them with indifference. At last--"

He paused; a lump rose in his throat, and his hands were clasped behind him convulsively.

"At last," he went on, with a fierce pa.s.sion--"at last I saw her--our eyes met. It was no fancy, no boyish imagination--it was reality. I stood before her, dumb, trembling, spellbound. I could not speak, I could not move, the power of life seemed to have gone from me."

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

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

He paused, and drew a deep sigh.

"I was mad--mad," he went on, with suppressed emotion, "and could not help myself. She absorbed all thought, all mind, and I was false to my true mistress, Art. Brush and easel were forgotten that I might seek this woman, and with my eyes drink in her beauty that filled my veins with poison. Her features and form were the perfection of beauty. Ah!

but there--you know too well. Valerie's beauty is that of a divine statue, and only a statue. A very G.o.ddess of loveliness, but carven in cold stone. There is no heart, no life, no soul within. I saw this then clearly, as I see it now, yet still I loved her--I loved her!"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

GABRIELLE DEBRIEGE.

A few moments' pause, and the artist resumed.

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

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

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

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

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

"A pity that, under such circ.u.mstances, you did not put an end to the acquaintanceship," Trethowen observed, without raising his head.

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

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

"Yes, yes; but don't shrink from me," he cried, in a beseeching tone.

"It was for her sake--for Valerie's sake. Prompted by the beautiful woman, whose loveliness maddened me, I took my rival's life. You will keep my secret, I know, so I will tell you how it came about. We were seated late one night in the Chat Noir, when she told me she had discovered that Nicholson and I were friends. I was not surprised, for I had antic.i.p.ated that sooner or later she would find this out: but in the conversation which ensued I reproached her for continuing her intrigue with him. The words I uttered appeared to cause her a fit of remorse, for she protested that it was through no fault of hers, but under absolute compulsion. She declared that this man was in possession of a secret which, if divulged, would ruin her, and hence he held power over her which made it imperative that she should continue the relationship even against her will. We went out and wandered along the deserted streets. With such terrible earnestness did she speak, entreating pity, and a.s.serting her affection for me, that, like a blind, trusting imbecile that I was, I believed her. Indeed, it was evident that whatever love she had entertained for Nicholson had turned to hate.

The remembrance of that night is so confused that I can scarce recollect the words I uttered. However, it was she who suggested the crime, for she a.s.sured me that if he died she would be willing to marry me. What greater incentive could a jealous lover have to kill the man who barred his happiness? In the few days that followed I tried to tear myself away from her; yet still I was drawn towards her, and at last Valerie--your wife--and I sat together one night actually plotting his death. Blindly I resigned myself to a fate worse than that of the doomed. I promised to murder him!"

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

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