But she exposed herself to terrible reprisals.

Mdlle. Debriege was not a woman to be cowed by the vindictive insults heaped upon her. She had nourished a natural and bitter hatred against this woman who had robbed her of her husband, and now the opportunity for revenge had come she did not fail to take advantage of it.

In plain, pointed words she addressed her, without sparing one cause of complaint or a single reproach, and in their full hideousness casting in her teeth the enormity of her sins. She repaid with interest in that moment all the countless sufferings the guilty woman had caused, completely overwhelming her with vituperation. Valerie heard her out with but little interruption, and when at length Gabrielle concluded, there was a moment's silence.

"Now, madame," exclaimed Hugh sternly, addressing his wife, "we will end this our last interview, for you and I will never meet again. From the bottom of my heart I hate you, hoping that a just retribution will be yours. When it comes, you will probably recollect the words of a man who loved you dearer than his life. Coombe never before gave shelter to a murderess, and it shall do so no longer. The hour is late, therefore I will grant you until to-morrow, but if you have not left here by midday I shall call in the police and give you up to justice. You understand--I shall not depart from my word. The tie which bound us has been broken, and I curse the day when I was so blindly infatuated as to link my life with yours."

"Hugh! Hugh! I--I am penitent. Have pity."

"You had none for me. I have none."

"Hugh! Forgive!"

"Never!"

As he turned from her, Egerton unlocked the door, and in silence they went out, while the unhappy woman tottered forward, and in despair cast herself upon the couch, burying her face in the silken cushions.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

DEVIL'S DICE.

Alone in her dainty little boudoir, Valerie was standing deep in thought.

In the ballroom, the excited revellers continued their antics, and the fair gleeful angels, now thoroughly resigned to their sable attendant spirits, allowed themselves to be whirled wildly up and down the room amid the applause of the gay a.s.sembly, who were too amused and absorbed with the novelty of the scene to notice the absence of their hostess.

Had they seen her at that moment they would scarce have recognised her as the woman who, only an hour before, was so radiant and reckless, and who had headed the Demon's Dance with so light a heart.

Nanette, having entered unexpectedly without knocking, had been surprised to find her mistress crouching by the fire in the cosy, luxuriant room, and noticing her pallor and agitation, asked with alarm what ailed her.

"It's a mere trifle," was the abrupt reply. "I--I'm not very well.

Should any of the people ask for me, tell them--tell them I have a bad headache--say anything, only don't let them disturb me. I must be alone--you understand?"

"Yes, madame," said the girl. "This came for you by to-night's post.

You have been so worried about the dance, I thought I would not give it to you before you came upstairs," she added, handing her mistress a letter.

Valerie glanced hastily at the envelope.

"You may go, Nanette," she said calmly. "I shall require nothing more to-night. Perhaps to-morrow I shall leave for London."

"Very well, madame," and rather pleased at this early release from her duties, the maid discreetly withdrew, closing the door noiselessly.

Going over to the corner where stood a tall lamp, the light of which was tempered by a shade of amber silk, she tore open the letter eagerly, and read its contents.

"Ah!" she cried, staggering as if she had been dealt a crushing blow, and staring wildly at the open note in her hand. "He, too--he has deserted me! I am forsaken!"

The letter, indeed, completed the retribution which had fallen so suddenly and mercilessly upon her. It was a short, curt note from Pierre Rouillier, whom she had left in London, stating that, having discovered that Gabrielle had inst.i.tuted inquiries, and fearing the exposure that must inevitably follow, he had taken the money she had entrusted to him to deposit in the bank, and was leaving England that night. The communication concluded with a cold, heartless declaration that he had grown tired of her caprices, and therefore he had resolved that they should never meet again.

Wounded to the quick, she tore the letter in half, and cast it upon the fire.

"Miserable coward!" she hissed. "Afraid of your own safety, you run away and leave me to meet them alone."

Sublime in her indignation, she paced the room impatiently. In her despair she pushed the thick hair from her hot, fevered brow. It came unloosened, and fell in profuse luxuriance over her bare heaving breast, while at the same time the diamond star dropped upon the floor, and lay glistening in the fitful firelight.

Mad with pa.s.sion, she crushed it under the heel of her tiny satin shoe.

Ignominious defeat, combined with the desertion of the only man for whom she entertained a spark of genuine affection, had completely corroded her soul. At first she thought only of revenge, and strode up and down muttering fearful imprecations upon those who had been the cause of her downfall. With a sudden ebullition of pa.s.sion she unclasped the bracelet from her wrist, and flinging it down, treated it in the same manner as the other ornament. Then hooking her thin white fingers in the lace of her bodice, she tore it to shreds, casting the fragments heedlessly about her.

She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror; a shudder pa.s.sed over her graceful form, and her slim hands trembled violently.

"_Dieu_!" she wailed. "What shall I do? Enemies on every side await their opportunity to overthrow me, and jeer at my discomfiture! Ah!

what a fate!"

Pale as the gown she wore, she reeled, and would have fallen had she not clutched the table for support.

Her pa.s.sion was succeeded by blank, poignant despair. The bloodless lips were compressed firmly as she made a vain effort to shake off the terrible fear which had taken possession of her; but the soft, smooth brow contracted, and the handsome face became dark and gloomy. She could not put away the black forebodings; they clung to her; they clutched her mind with a desperate grasp, and she was powerless to resist them. Her whole frame shook with a feverish tremor, for she was conscious that fate was against her, and that the spirit of evil was hovering about her ready to drag her down to destruction.

Her lips quivered, but she stood motionless and mute in contemplation.

The strains of a dreamy waltz penetrating into the room jarred upon her nerves. She covered her ears with her hands to shut out the sound of gaiety, and waited patiently until it had ceased.

"If I leave here what will be my future?" she asked aloud in desperation. "I can do nothing--nothing. Hugh knows all--everything!

I am already branded as a murderess--a woman who should be hunted down and delivered to justice! And what then? Suppose that cursed Gabrielle gave me up to the police?" She paused, and drew a long breath before continuing.

"La Roquette! The _lunette_!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely. "I see them! I know how justice would punish me, and how my enemies, those who are jealous of my success, would triumph. No--no! _Dieu_! I couldn't bear it-- I--!"

A deep-drawn sob burst from her, and she hid her agonised face in her hands.

The stillness was only broken by the ticking of the tiny Dresden dock, the chimes of which, as it struck the hour, mingled with the sighs of the dejected woman.--Presently she raised her blanched face.

"Death!" she exclaimed in a husky whisper, looking half fearfully around, as if startled at the sound of her own voice. "Nothing else remains for me. There is no hope--no mercy--I am guilty--_guilty_!

Sooner or later death will be the punishment of my crime, so why not now? If I escape from here, I shall only plunge into poverty and be tracked by the bloodhounds of the law. Ah! no! _Sapristi_! I prefer death!" With wild, wearied eyes she gazed slowly around, bewildered by her own suggestion.

"Yet am I so much to blame after all?" she soliloquised. "It was Victor's suggestion--he taught me to commit robbery. He compelled me to commit murder. Dazzled by the prospect of wealth and luxury he held constantly before my eyes, I submitted. He made me his cat's-paw to perpetrate crimes which he was too great a coward to commit himself, and when he found himself cornered he exposed me in order to deprive me of liberty and life. Had I never met the mean, contemptible scoundrel, I should have led as blameless a life as ordinary women, and remained the dutiful wife of Percy Willoughby, notwithstanding his ill-treatment."

Across her aching forehead she pa.s.sed her hand quickly, brushing her hair back from her face.

"Bah!" she continued, with bitterness. "What's the use of thinking of things as they might have been? Victor's companionship made me callous, and I stained my hands with crime in order to gain riches. I abandoned every womanly feeling and instinct, and carried out the plot without regard for those who stood in my way. Therefore, there are no extenuating circ.u.mstances. No. I staked my life upon the game, but, my usual luck having deserted me, I have lost--lost irretrievably. I must pay."

Her frenzy of pa.s.sion had been succeeded by a calm thoughtful mood, and she was silently reviewing her past, recognising for the first time how vile and hideous were her sins.

"G.o.d," she cried, in an intense, pitiful voice, "I would give all-- everything I possess--if it were possible to atone--if I could obtain Hugh's forgiveness! He loved me so dearly, lavished all his affection and money upon me, and closed his ears to the truth, which he thought calumnies, yet--I killed his brother--stabbed him--afterwards sending Hugh himself to penal servitude. And for what? Merely for my own aggrandis.e.m.e.nt--in order that I might become mistress of this place, and live in luxury and ease. It was a foul, horrible plot," she added, shuddering. "Repentance is useless, forgiveness hopeless; I can only-- die--_die_!"

As she uttered these words her eyes fell upon the davenport which stood on the opposite side of the room. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

She crossed the boudoir, and, seating herself, took up a pen and commenced to write rapidly.

The letter was long and rambling, devoid of any endearing terms. It commenced with an admission of her marriage with Willoughby and the subsequent divorce, followed by a full confession of the murder of Douglas Trethowen. She wrote:

_I was walking along Pall Mall alone, about ten o'clock at night, when I encountered him, not by accident but by design. He quickly recognised me, and appeared pleased that we had met. For nearly a quarter of an hour we stood talking, until he told me he had an appointment at Liverpool Street Station. At that moment an omnibus slackened speed opposite us to allow two men to alight. I suggested we should go to the City together in the 'bus, and we entered it. There was no conductor, and we were alone. Scarcely had we entered the vehicle when his manner suddenly changed, and he spoke of the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann.

His att.i.tude was threatening, and he said that now I was there with him without any chance of escape, he intended to give me up to the police as a murderess when the conveyance arrived at its destination. I grew frightened, for I was convinced from his manner that he meant what he said. It was not by accident, but by intention, that I had met him, and I was fully prepared. I saw the time had come, and, drawing from my pocket the handkerchief I had prepared, I soon quieted him. Then I struck the blow. I drove the knife in hard; it killed him. It all happened in a few moments, and while the omnibus was still in motion and about to enter the Strand I jumped out quickly and made my escape_.