The Temptress

She knew she had said too much, and tried to hide her confusion in the intense grief which his announcement had caused.

“You said her name was Duvauchel?” he said quietly.

“Did I? Well, what of that?”

“You are acquainted with incidents of her past. What is it you know? Tell me.”

She hesitated. Her face was white and agitated, but she had shed no tears. Her heart was stricken with grief, yet she strove to conceal her intense love for the man who was reported dead.

“Why,” she answered slowly, “I know that she – but – indeed, I know nothing,” she added hysterically.

“That’s not the truth,” he said reproachfully.

“Perhaps not. Nevertheless, what I know I shall keep secret. The time may come when I shall have my revenge upon the woman who has robbed me of the man I love – the vile, heartless woman who has killed him.”

“You cannot prove that he met with his death by foul means,” he said reflectively. “The report says he died suddenly – nothing more. Read for yourself,” and he handed her the paper, at the same time pointing to the paragraph.

“Then she has obtained all his money?” Dolly observed mechanically, after she had glanced at it. “Is not that sufficient motive for his death?”

The artist admitted that it was. The unutterable sadness of ten minutes before had given place to a strange apprehensive dread. It was clear that Dolly was in possession of some facts connected with the hidden pages of the Frenchwoman’s history. In that case, he told himself, it was more than probable she would ultimately discover his own secret – the secret which fettered him to this clever, handsome adventuress, even if she were not acquainted with it already. His heart sank within him as he recognised that alienation and loathing would be the inevitable result Dolly would shrink from his touch as from some unclean thing. She would regard him as a debased criminal.

He tried to fix upon some means by which to ascertain the extent of her information. The thought suggested itself that he should tell her something of Valérie’s history, and lead her on to divulge what she knew. Such a course, however, did not commend itself to him. He was bound to preserve the secret, for full well he knew that Valérie’s threats were never idle – that she would show him no mercy if he divulged.

Thus he was as powerless as before. The maddening thought flashed through his mind that a plain, straightforward statement of facts to Hugh when first he had met her would have obviated his ruin and prevented his death.

To and fro he paced the studio in a frenzy of grief and despair.

The pretty model watched him for a moment, then, sinking upon a couch, and covering her face with her hands, burst into a torrent of tears. Unable to control her bitter sorrow, her pent-up feelings obtained vent in a manner that was heart-rending to the kind, sensitive man who stood before her.

“Dolly, I know what a terrible blow this is to you,” said he sympathetically, removing her hat, and tenderly stroking her hair. “You loved him?”

She did not answer at once, hesitating even then to admit the truth.

“Yes,” she sobbed at last, “I did. You little know what I have endured for his sake.”

“Ah! I can well understand. You loved him dearly, yet he left you for the woman who exercised a fatal fascination upon him. With scarcely a word of farewell, he cast your love aside and offered Valérie marriage. I know the depth of your disappointment and terrible sorrow. Don’t think that because I have never made love to you that I am utterly devoid of affection. I loved – once – and it brought me grief quite as poignant as yours; therefore I can sympathise with you.”

He spoke with sadness, and with a heavy sigh passed his hand with aweary gesture across his care-lined brow.

“It’s so foolish of me,” she murmured apologetically, in a low, broken voice. “I ought not to have made this confession.”

“Why not? I had noticed it long ago. Love always betrays itself.”

Lifting her sad, tear-stained face, she looked earnestly into his eyes.

“What can you think of me, Jack?” she asked.

“Think of you?” he repeated. “Why, the same as I have always done – that you are an upright, honest woman. Neither blame nor dishonour attaches to you. When he left you so cruelly, you bore your sorrow bravely, thinking, no doubt, that some day he might return and make you happy. Was not that so?”

She nodded an affirmative. Her gaze was fixed thoughtfully on the canvas which stood on an easel behind him; her slim, white hands were crossed in front of her.

“Since we parted,” she said, in a strained, broken voice, as if speaking to herself, “he has been uppermost in my thoughts. Often when I have been alone, indulging in dreamy musings, I have looked up and seemed to see him standing contemplating me. Then all the regret has fled from my heart, and paradise has stolen in. He has spoken to me, smiled at me, as he did in those pleasant days when first we knew each other. Yet next moment the vision would fade before my eyes, and I have found myself deceived by a mere chimera, tricked by an idle fancy. But now he is dead: gone from me never to return – never.”

And she again gave way to tears, sobbing bitterly.

“Come, come, Dolly,” said the artist, again passing his hand lightly over her hair, endeavouring to soothe her; “don’t be downhearted. Yours is a cruel and heavy sorrow, I know; but try to bear up against it, try to think that perhaps, as you suggested, he is not dead. Even if you have lost your lover, you have in me a true and trusted friend.”

“Yes, I know,” she sobbed brokenly. “You are my only friend. It is extremely kind of you to talk like this; yet you cannot know the extent of my love for him.”

“I quite realise how much you cared for him,” he said slowly, in a pained voice. “If he had married you, his life would have been peaceful and happy. Fate, however, decreed different, and, that being the case, you must try to forget him.”

“Forget him! Never!” she cried. Then recovering herself, she added: “Excuse what I say; I hardly know what I’ve been telling you.”

“Whatever has passed between us will always be kept secret,” he assured her.

“Ah! I feel sure you will tell no one; you are always loyal to a woman.”

“Now, promise to think less about him,” he urged, looking down into her grief-stricken face.

“I cannot,” she replied firmly. “Somehow, I don’t believe that he is dead. I shall endeavour to clear up the mystery and ascertain the truth.”

“And I will render you what assistance I can. Count upon my help,” he said enthusiastically. “We’ll get at the real facts somehow or other.”

“You are very kind,” she answered, drying her tears, and putting on her veil before the mirror. “I have a terrible headache, and am fit for nothing to-day, so I’ll go home.”

To this proposal the artist offered no objection. Her inconsolable grief pained him, and he wanted to be alone to think; so, grasping her hand warmly, he again urged her to bear up under her burden, and watched her walk slowly out, with bowed head and uneven steps.

Chapter Thirty

The Englishman of the Boulevard Haussmann

A calm, boundless waste of sunlit sea. Three men, haggard, blear-eyed, and staring, sat in dejected attitudes in a small, open boat. The blazing noonday sun beat down mercilessly upon their uncovered heads, reflecting from the water’s unruffled surface, blinding them by its intense glare.

There was not the faintest breath of wind, not a speck upon the clearly-defined horizon – nothing but the wide, brilliant expanse of the Pacific. Long ago all hope of rescue had been abandoned. One of the ragged, unkempt trio was lashed tightly to the thwarts for, having slaked his thirst with sea water, he had developed insanity, and his companions had bound him fast where he sat, wide-eyed and dishevelled, giving vent at frequent intervals to the drivel of an idiot, plentifully punctuated with horrible imprecations.

The two others, thin-faced, careworn, and anxious, sat silent, motionless, in blank, unutterable despair. Ever and anon their aching, bloodshot eyes wandered wearily around in search of a passing sail, but never once had a mast been sighted, for they were out of the track of the ships. In dress each bore a resemblance to the other, inasmuch as numbers were painted conspicuously on their backs, while the wrists of the one who had become demented were still in bracelets of rusted steel, although the connecting link had been broken. They were three bearded, dirty, repulsive-looking criminals, who, having been so far successful as to escape from New Caledonia, had discovered, to their dismay and horror, that their bold dash for liberty had been in vain – that they had escaped their taskmasters only to be ultimately overcome by thirst and starvation.

The heat was awful. The blazing sun parched their mouths, and set their brains aflame with fever. Though now and then they sucked the horn hilts of their knives in an endeavour to alleviate the all-consuming thirst, yet their throats were too dry to utter scarcely a syllable. Rowing was useless, conversation was useless, hope was useless. Abandoned to despair, they were patiently awaiting the moment when body and soul would part. They suffered most because they still remained sane.

Six days ago Hugh Trethowen and two fellow-prisoners had been told off from the labour gang to convey stones from the seashore to a spot several miles distant, where a road was being made through the forest. Unaccompanied by the warder, they had made several journeys with the ox-cart, when, on returning to the beach, they observed, to their surprise and satisfaction, that a boat had been run ashore from a ship lying on the opposite side of the headland, and that the crew had left it, evidently proceeding inland in search of provisions.

The prospect of escape immediately suggested itself, and ten minutes later the three men had embarked, and were rowing swiftly round another headland, so as to avoid being observed by those on the ship. After proceeding a couple of miles along a shore they well knew was deserted, they turned the boat’s head and made straight for the open sea. Excited at the prospect of freedom, all three bent to the oars, exerting every muscle, for they were compelled to get out of sight before their absence was discovered, otherwise they would be pursued and most probably shot down.

Onward they pulled, until the island was only just visible, a dark blue line upon the far-off horizon: then after pausing for half-an-hour’s rest, they resumed rowing with courage and confidence inspired by thoughts of the free life that lay before them.

The cool breeze of evening refreshed them, and through the long night they struggled on, bending to their oars with a will, even singing snatches of songs to the rhythm of the oars in the rowlocks. Never since their transportation had they experienced such joy as during those first few hours of freedom on the wide silent sea. But happiness does not allay hunger, and when about midnight they thought of food, they discovered to their dismay that there was not a morsel of anything eatable or a drop of fresh water in the boat.

Deep gloomy forebodings succeeded their brief period of happiness, and just before dawn the hungry, adventurous fugitives threw themselves down in the bottom of the boat and slept. In the morning the wind dropped, and there was a dead, breathless calm, that had since been unbroken.