In the meantime the Advocate and his wife strolled through the grounds. Although it was evident that much labour had been bestowed upon them, there were signs of decay here and there which showed the need of a master mind; but as these traces were only to be met with at some distance from the villa itself, it was clear that they would not interfere with the comfort of the new arrivals. The house lay low, and the immediate grounds surrounding it were in good condition. There were orchards stocked with fruit-trees, and gardens bright with flowers. At a short distance from the house was an old châlet which had been built with great taste; it was newly painted, and much care had been bestowed upon a covered pathway which led to it from a side entrance to the House of White Shadows. The principal room in this châlet was a large studio, the walls of which were black. On the left wall--in letters which once were white, but which had grown yellow with age--was inscribed the legend, "The Grave of Honour."
"How singular!" exclaimed the Advocate's wife. "'The Grave of Honour!' What can be the meaning of it?"
But Mother Denise did not volunteer an explanation.
Near the end of the studio was an alcove, the space beyond being screened by a dead crimson curtain. Holding back the curtain, a large number of pictures were seen piled against the walls.
"Family pictures?" asked the Advocate's wife, of Mother Denise.
"No, my lady," was the reply; "they were painted by an artist, who resided and worked here for a year or so in the lifetime of the old master."
By the desire of the lady the housekeeper brought a few of the pictures into the light. One represented a pleasure party of ladies and gentlemen dallying in summer woods; another, a lady lying in a hammock and reaching out her arm to pluck some roses; two were companion pictures, the first subject being two persons who might have been lovers, standing among strewn flowers in the sunshine--the second subject showing the same figures in a different aspect; a cold grey sea divided them, on the near shore of which the man stood in an attitude of despair gazing across the waters to the opposite shore, on which stood the woman with a pale, grief-stricken face.
"The sentiment is strained," observed the Advocate, "but the artist had talent."
"A story could be woven out of them," said his wife; "I feel as if they were connected with the house."
Upon leaving the châlet they continued their tour through the grounds. Already the Advocate felt the beneficial effects of a healthy change. His eyes were clearer, his back straighter, he moved with a brisker step. Mother Denise walked in front, pointing out this and that, Martin hobbled behind, and Dionetta, encouraged thereto, walked by her new mistress's side.
"Dionetta," said the Advocate's wife, "do you know that you have the prettiest name in the world?"
"Have I, my lady? I have never thought of it, but it is, if you say so."
"But perhaps," said the Advocate's wife, with a glance at the girl's bright face, "a man would not think of your name when he looked at you."
"I am sure I cannot say, my lady; he would not think of me at all."
"You little simpleton! I wish I had such a name; they ought to wait till we grow up, so that we might choose our own names. I should not have chosen Adelaide for myself."
"Is that your name, my lady?"
"Yes--they could not have given me an uglier."
"Nay," said Dionetta, raising her eyes in mute appeal for forgiveness for the contradiction, "it is very sweet."
"Repeat it, then. Adelaide."
"May I, my lady?"
"Of course you may, if I wish you to. Let me hear you speak it."
"Adelaide! Adelaide!" murmured Dionetta softly. The permission was as precious as the gift of a silver chain would have been. "My lady, it is pretty."
"Shall we change?" asked the Advocate's wife gaily.
"Can we?" inquired Dionetta in a solemn tone. "I would not mind if you wish it, and if it is right. I will ask the priest."
"No, do not trouble. Would you really like to change?"
"It would be so strange--and it might be a sin! If we cannot, it is of no use thinking of it."
"There is no sin in thinking of things; if there were, the world would be full of sin, and I--dear me, how much I should have to answer for! I should not like everyone to know my thoughts. What a quiet life you must live here, Dionetta!"
"Yes, my lady, it is quiet."
"Would you not prefer to live in a city?"
"I should be frightened, my lady. I have been only twice to Geneva, and there was no room in the streets to move about. I was glad to get back."
"No room to move about, simplicity! That is the delight of it. There are theatres, and music, and light, and life. You would not be frightened if you were with me?"
"Oh, no, my lady; that would be happiness."
"Are you not happy here?"
"Oh, yes, very happy."
"But you wish for something?"
"No, my lady; I have everything I want."
"Everything--positively everything?"
"Yes, my lady."
"There is one thing you must want, Dionetta, if you have it not already."
"May I know what it is?"
"Yes, child. Love."
Dionetta blushed crimson from forehead to throat, and the Advocate's wife laughed, and tapped her cheek.
"You are very pretty, Dionetta; it is right you should have a pretty name. Do you mean to tell me you have not a lover?"
"I have been asked, my lady," said the girl, in a tone so low that it could only just be heard.
"And you said 'yes'? Little one, I have caught you."
"My lady, I did not say 'yes.'"
"And the men were contented? They must be dolts. Really and truly, you have not a lover?"
"What can I say, my lady?" murmured Dionetta, her head bent down. "There are some who say they--love me."
"But you do not love them?"
"No, my lady."
"You would like to have one you could love?"
"One day, my lady, if I am so fortunate."
"I promise you," said the Advocate's wife with a blithe laugh, "that one day you will be so fortunate. Women were made for love--and men, too, or where would be the use? It is the only thing in life worth living for. Blushing again! I would give my jewel-case to be able to blush like you."
"I cannot help it, my lady. My face often grows red when I am quite alone."
"And thinking of love," added the Advocate's wife; "for what else should make it red? So you do think of things! I can see, Dionetta, that you and I are going to be great friends."
"You are very good, my lady, but I am only a poor peasant. I will serve you as well as I can."
"You knew, before I came, that you were to be my maid?"
"Yes, my lady. Master Lamont said it was likely. Grandmother did not seem to care that it should be so, but I wished for it, and now that she has seen you she must be glad for me to serve you."
"Why should she be glad, Dionetta?"
"My lady, it could not be otherwise," said Dionetta very earnestly; "you are so good and beautiful."
"Flatterer! Master Lamont--he is an old man?"
"Yes, my lady."
"There are some old men who are very handsome."
"He is not. He is small, and thin, and shrivelled up."
"Those are not the men for us, are they, little one?"
"But he has a voice like honey. I have heard many say so."
"That is something in his favour--or would be, if women were blind. So from this day you are my maid. You will be faithful, I am sure, and will keep my secrets. Mind that, Dionetta. You must keep my secrets."
"Have you any?" said Dionetta, "and shall you tell them to me?"
"Every woman in the world has secrets, and every woman in the world must have someone to whom she can whisper them. You will find that out for yourself in time. Yes, child, I have secrets--one, a very precious one. If ever you guess it without my telling you, keep it buried in your heart, and do not speak of it to a living soul."
"I would not dare, my lady."
They walked a little apart from the others during this dialogue. The concluding words brought them to the steps of the House of White Shadows.
"Edward," said the Advocate's wife to him, as they entered the house, "I have found a treasure. My new maid is charming."
"I am pleased to hear it. She has an ingenuous face, but you will be able to judge better when you know more of her."
"You do not trust many persons, Edward."
"Not many, Adelaide."
"Me?" she asked archly.
"Implicitly."
"And another, I think."
"Certainly, one other."
"I should not be far out if I were to name Christian Almer."
"It is to him I refer."
"I have sometimes wondered," she said, with an artless look, "why you should be so partial to him. He is so unlike you."
"We are frequently drawn to our unlikes; but Almer and I have one quality in common with each other."
"What quality, Edward?"
"The quality of the dog--faithfulness. Almer's friendship is precious to me, and mine to him, because we are each to the other faithful."
"The quality of the dog! How odd that sounds! Though when one thinks of it there is really something noble in it. And friendship--it is almost as if you placed it higher than love."
"It is far higher. Love too frequently changes, as the seasons change. Friendship is, of the two, the more likely to endure, being less liable to storms. But even a faithful friendship is rare."
"And faithful love much rarer, according to your ideas. Yet, Mr. Almer, having this quality of the dog, would be certain, you believe, to be faithful both in love and friendship."
"To the death."
"You are thorough in your opinions, Edward."
"I do not believe in half-heartedness, Adelaide."
The arrangements within the house were complete and admirable. For the Advocate's wife, a boudoir and reception-rooms into which new fashions had been introduced with judgment so good as not to jar with the old furnishings which had adorned them for many generations. For the Advocate a study, with a library which won from him cordial approval; a spacious and commodious apartment, neither overloaded with furniture nor oppressive with bare spaces; with an outlook from one window to the snow regions of Mont Blanc, from another to the city of Geneva, which was now bathed in a soft, mellow light. This tender evidence of departing day was creeping slowly downwards into the valleys from mount and city, a moving picture of infinite beauty.
They visited the study last; Adelaide had been loud in her praises of the house and its arrangement, commending this and that, and declaring that everything was perfect. While she was examining the furniture in the study the Advocate turned to the principal writing-table, upon which lay a pile of newspapers. He took up the first of these, and instinctively searched for the subject which had not left his mind since his visit to the banker, Jacob Hartrich--the murder of Madeline the flower-girl. He was deep in the perusal of fresh details, confirmatory of Gautran's guilt, when he was aroused by a stifled cry of alarm from Adelaide. With the newspaper still in his hand, he looked up and asked what had alarmed her. She laughed nervously, and pointed to an old sideboard upon which a number of hideous faces were carved. To some of the faces bodies were attached, and the whole of this ancient work of art was extravagant enough to have had for its inspiration the imaginings of a madman's brain.
"I thought I saw them moving," said Adelaide. The Advocate smiled, and said:
"It is the play of light over the figures that created the delusion; they are harmless, Adelaide."
The glow of sunset shone through a painted window upon the faces, which to a nervous mind might have seemed to be animated with living colour.
"Look at that frightful head," said Adelaide; "it is really stained with blood."
"And now," observed the Advocate, "the blood-stain fades away, and in the darker light the expression grows sad and solemn."
"I should be frightened of this room at night," said Adelaide, with a slight shiver; "I should fancy those hideous beings were only waiting an opportunity to steal out upon me for an evil purpose."
A noise in the passage outside diverted their attention.
"Gently, Fritz, gently," cried a voice, "unless you wish to make holes in the sound part of me."
The Advocate moved to the door, and opened it. A strange sight came into view.
At the door stood Fritz the Fool, carrying in his arms what in the gathering dusk looked like a bundle. This bundle was human--a man who was but half a man. Embracing Fritz, with one arm tightly clutching the Fool's neck, the figure commenced to speak the moment the door was opened.
"I only am to blame; learning that you were in the study, I insisted upon being brought here immediately; carry me in gently, Fool, and set me in that chair."
The chair indicated was close to the writing-table, by which the Advocate was standing.
"Fritz made me acquainted with your arrival," continued the intruder, "and I hastened here without delay. When I tell you that I live two miles off, eight hundred feet above the level of this valley, you will realise the jolting I have had in my wheeled chair. Fritz, you can leave us; but be within call, as you must help to get me home again. Is there any need for me to introduce myself?" he asked.
"Master Lamont," said the Advocate.
"As much as is left of me; but I manage to exist. I have proved that a man can live without legs. You received my letter?"
"Yes; and I thank you for your attention. My wife," said the Advocate, introducing Adelaide. Attracted by the dulcet voice of Pierre Lamont, she had come out of the deeper shadows of the room. Dionetta had spoken truly; this thin, shrivelled wreck of mortality had a voice as sweet as honey.
"I cannot rise to pay my respects to you," said Pierre Lamont, his lynx eyes resting with profound admiration upon the beautiful woman, "but I beg you to believe that I am your devoted slave." Adelaide bent her head gracefully, and smiled upon the old lawyer. "One of my great anxieties is to know whether I have arranged the villa to your satisfaction. Christian Almer was most desirous that the place should be made pleasant and attractive, and I have endeavoured to carry out his instructions."
"We owe you a debt of gratitude," said Adelaide; "everything has been charmingly done."
"I am repaid for my labour," said Pierre Lamont gallantly. "You must be fatigued after your journey. Do not let me detain you. I shall remain with the Advocate but a very few minutes, and I trust you will allow me to make another and a longer visit."
"We shall always be happy to see you," said Adelaide, as she bowed and left the room.
"You are fortunate, comrade," said Pierre Lamont, "both in love and war. Your lady is the most beautiful I have ever beheld. I am selfishly in hopes that you will make a long stay with us; it will put some life into this sleepy valley. Is Christian Almer with you?"
"No; but I may induce him to come. It is to you," said the Advocate, pointing to the pile of newspapers, "that I am indebted for these."
"I thought you would find something in them to interest you. I see you have one of the papers in your hand, and that you were reading it before I intruded upon you. May I look at it? Ah! you have caught up the scent. It was the murder of the flower-girl I meant."
"Have you formed an opinion upon the case?"
"Scarcely yet; it is so surrounded with mystery. In my enforced retirement I amuse myself by taking up any important criminal case that occurs; and trying it in my solitude, acting at once the parts of judge and counsel for the prosecution and defence. A poor substitute for the reality; but I make it serve--not to my satisfaction, I confess, although I may show ingenuity in some of my conclusions. But I miss the cream, which lies in the personality of the persons concerned. This case of Gautran interests and perplexes me; were I able to take an active part, it is not unlikely I should move in it. I envy you, brother; I should feel proud if I could break a lance with you; but we do not live in an age of miracles, so I must be content, perforce, with my hermit life. What I read does not always please me; points are missed--almost wilfully missed, as it seems to me--strong links allowed to fall, disused, false inferences drawn, and, in the end, a verdict and sentence which half make me believe that justice limps on crutches. 'Fools, fools, fools!' I cry; 'if I were among you this should not be.' But what can an old cripple do? Grumble? Yes; and extract a morsel of satisfaction from his discontent--which tickles his vanity. That men's deserts are not meted out to them troubles me more now than it used to do. The times are too lenient of folly and crime. I would have the old law revived. 'To the doer as he hath done'--thus saith the thrice ancient word--so runs the 'Agamemnon.' If my neighbour kill my ass, I would knock his on the head. And this Gautran, if he be guilty, deserves the death; if he be innocent, deserves to live and be set free. But to allow a poor wretch to be judged by public passions--Heaven send us a beneficent change!"
The voice of the speaker was so sweet, and the arguments so palatable to the Advocate, and so much in accordance with his own views, that he listened with pleasure to this outburst. He recognised in the cripple huddled up in the chair one whose pre-eminence in his craft had been worthily attained.
"I am pleased we have met," he said, and the eyes of Pierre Lamont glistened.
He soon brought his visit to a close, and while Fritz the Fool was being summoned, he said that in the morning he would send the Advocate all the papers he could gather which might help to throw a light on the case of Gautran.
"You have spoken with Fritz, he tells me."
"I have; he appears to me worth studying."
"There is salt in the knave; he has occasionally managed to overreach me. Fool as he is, he has a head with brains in it. Farewell."
Now, although the old lawyer, while he was with the Advocate, seemed to think of nothing but his more celebrated legal brother, it was far different as he was carried in his wheeled chair to his home on the heights. He had his own servant to propel him; Fritz walked by his side.
"You were right, Fritz, you were right," said Pierre Lamont, and he smacked his lips, and his eyes kindled with the fire of youth, "she is a rare piece of flesh and blood--as fair as a lily, as ripe as a peach ready to drop from the wall. With passions of her own, Fritz; her veins are warm. To live in the heart of such a woman would be to live a perpetual summer. What say you, Fritz?"
"Nothing."
"That is a fool's answer."
"Then the fools are the real wise men, for there is wisdom in silence. But I say nothing because I am thinking."
"A mouse in labour. Beware of bringing forth a mountain; it will rend you to pieces."
Fritz softly hummed a tune as they climbed the hills. Only once did he speak till they arrived at Pierre Lamont's house; it was in reply to the old lawyer, who said:
"It is easier going up the hills than coming down."
"That depends," said Fritz, "upon whether it is the mule or the man on his back."
Pierre Lamont laughed quietly; he had a full enjoyment of Fritz's humour.
"I have been thinking," said Fritz when the journey was completed----
"Ah, ah!" interrupted Pierre Lamont; "now for the mountain."
"--Upon the reason that made so fair a lady--young, and warm, and ripe--marry an icicle."
"There is hidden fire, Fritz; you may get it from a stone."
"I forgot," said Fritz, with a sly chuckle, "that I was speaking to an old man."
"Rogue!" cried Pierre Lamont, raising his stick.
"Never stretch out your hand," said Fritz, darting away, "for what you cannot reach."
"Fritz, Fritz, come here!"
"You will not strike?"
"No."
"I will trust you. There are lawyers I would not, though every word they uttered was framed in gold."
"So, you have been thinking of the reason that made so fair a lady marry an icicle?"
"Yes."
"The icicle is celebrated."
"That is of no account."
"He is rich."
"That is good."
"He is much older than she. He may die, and leave her a young widow."
"That is better."
"Then she may marry again--a younger man."
"That is best Master Lamont, you have a head."
"And your own love-affair, Fritz, is that flourishing, eh? Have the pretty red lips kissed a 'Yes' yet?"
"The pretty red lips have not been asked. I bide my time. My peach is not as ripe as the icicle's. I'll go and look after it, Master Lamont. It needs careful watching; there are poachers about."
Fritz departed to look after his peach, and Pierre Lamont was carried into his study, where he sat until late in the night, surrounded by books and papers.
The Advocate was also in his study until two hours past midnight, searching newspaper after newspaper for particulars and details of the murder of the unfortunate girl whose body had been found in the wildly rushing Rhone. And while he pondered and mused, and ofttimes paced the room with thoughtful face, his wife lay sleeping in her holiday home, with smiles on her lips, and joy in her heart, for she was dreaming of one far away. And her dream was of love.
And Dionetta, the pretty maid, also slept, with her hands clasped at the back of her head; and her lady was saying to her: "Really and truly, Dionetta, you have not a lover? Women are made for love. It is the only thing in life worth living for." And a blush, even in her sleep, stole over her fair face and bosom. For her dream was of love.
And Pierre Lamont lived over again the days of his youth, and smirked and languished, and made fine speeches, and moved amidst a paradise of fair faces, all of which bore the likeness of one whom he had but just seen for the first time. And, old as he was, his dream was of love.
And Fritz the Fool tossed in his bed, and muttered:
"Too fair! too fair! If I were rich she might tempt me to be false to one, and make me vow I would lay down my life for her. It is a good thing for me that I am a fool."
And Gautran in his prison cell writhed upon his hard bed in the midst of the darkness; for by his side lay the phantom of the murdered girl, and his despair was deep and awful.
And in the mountains, two hundred miles distant from the House of White Shadows, roamed Christian Almer in the moonlight, struggling with all his mental might with a terror which possessed him. The spot he had flown to was ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, and his sleeping-room was in the hut of a peasant, mountain-born and mountain-reared, who lived a life of dull contentment with his goats, and wife, and children. Far away in the heights immense forests of fir-trees were grouped in dark, solemn masses. Not a branch stirred; a profound repose reigned within their depths, while the sleepless waterfalls in the lower heights, leaping, and creeping, and dashing over chasm and precipice, proclaimed the eternal wakefulness of Nature. The solitary man gazed upon these majestic signs in awe and despair.
"There is no such thing as oblivion," he muttered; "there is no such thing as forgetfulness. These solitudes, upon which no living creature but myself is to be seen, are full of accusing voices. My God! to die and be blotted out for ever and ever were better than this agony! I strive and strive, and cannot rid myself of the sin. I will conquer it--I will--I will--I will!"
But even as he spoke there gleamed upon him from a laughing cascade the vision of a face so beautiful as to force a groan from his lips. He turned from the vision, and it shone upon him with a tender wooing in every waterfall that met his sight. Trembling with the force of a passion he found it impossible to resist, he walked to his mountain home, and threw himself upon his couch. He was exhausted with sleepless nights, and in a short time he fell into a deep slumber. And a calm stole over his troubled soul, for his dreams were of love!
"Arise, Gautran."
At this command Gautran rose slowly from the floor of his prison-cell, upon which he had been lying at full length, and shaking himself like a dog, stood before the gaoler.
"Can't you let me alone?" he asked, in a coarse, savage voice.
"Scum of the gutter!" replied the gaoler. "Speak civilly while you have the power, and be thankful your tongue is not dragged out by the roots."
"You would do it if you dared."
"Ay--and a thousand honest men would rejoice to help me."
"Is it to tell me this you disturbed me?"
"No, murderer!"
"What do you want of me?"
The gaoler laughed at him in mockery. "You look more like beast than man."
"That's how I've been treated," growled Gautran.
"Better than you deserve. So, you have influential friends, it seems."
"Have I?" with a venomous flash at the taunt.
"One will be here to see you directly."
"Let him keep from me. I care to see no one."
"That may be, but the choice is not yours. This gentleman is not to be denied."
"A gentleman, eh?" exclaimed Gautran, with some slight show of interest.
"Yes, a gentleman."
"Who is he, and what is his business with me?"
"He is a great lawyer, who has sent murderers to their doom----"
"Ah!" and Gautran drew a long vindictive breath through closed teeth.
"And has set some free, I've heard."
"Is he going to do that for me?" asked Gautran, and a light of fierce hope shone in his eyes.
"He will earn Heaven's curse if he does, and man's as well. Here he is. Silence."
The door was opened, and the Advocate entered the cell.
"This is Gautran?" he asked of the gaoler.
"This is he," replied the gaoler.
"Leave me alone with him."
"It is against my orders, sir."
"Here is your authority."
He handed to the gaoler a paper, which gave him permission to hold free and uninterrupted converse with Gautran, accused of the murder of Madeline the flower-girl. The interview not to last longer than an hour.
The gaoler prepared to depart, but before he left the cell he said in an undertone:
"Be careful of the man; he is a savage, and not to be trusted."
"There is nothing to fear," said the Advocate.
The gaoler lingered a moment, and then retired.
The cell was but dimly lighted, and the Advocate, coming into it from the full sunlight of a bright day, could not see clearly for a little while. On the other hand. Gautran, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, had a distinct view of the Advocate, and in a furtive, hangdog fashion he closely inspected the features of his visitor. The man who stood before him could obtain his condemnation or his acquittal. Dull-witted as he was, this conviction was as much an intuition as an impression gained from the gaoler's remarks.
"You are a woodman?" said the Advocate.
"Aye, a woodman. It is well known."
"Have you parents?"
"They are dead."
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"None. I was the only one."
"Friends?"
"No."
"Have you wife or children?"
"Neither."
"How much money have you?"
"Not a sou."
"What about this murder?" asked the Advocate abruptly.
"What about it, then?" demanded Gautran. The questions asked by the Advocate were more judicial than friendly, and he assumed an air of defiance.
"Speak in a different tone. I am here to assist you, if I see my way. You have no lawyer to defend you?"
"How should I get one? What lawyer works without pay, and where should I find the money to pay him?"
"Heed what I say. I do not ask you if you are innocent or guilty of the crime of which you stand charged, for that is a formula and, guilty or not guilty, you would return but one answer. Have you anything to tell me?"
"I can't think of anything."
"You have led an evil life."
"Not my fault. Can a man choose his own parents and his country? The life I have led I was born into; and that is to stand against me."
"Are there any witnesses who would come forward and speak in your favour?"
"None that I know of."
"Is it true that you were walking with the girl on the night she was murdered?"
"No man has heard me deny it," said Gautran, shuddering.
"Why do you shudder?"
"Master, you asked me just now whether I had a wife, and I told you I had none. This girl was to have been my wife. I loved her, and we were to have been married."
"That is disputed."
"Everything is disputed that would tell in my favour. The truth is of no use to a poor devil caught in a trap as I am. Have you heard any good of me, master?"
"Not any; all that I have heard is against you."
"That is the way of it. Well, then, judge for yourself."
"Can you indicate anyone who would be likely to murder the girl? You shudder again."
"I cannot help it. Master, put yourself in this cell, as I am put, without light, without hope, without money, without a friend. You would need a strong nerve to stand it. You want to know if I can point out anyone who could have done the deed but me? Well, if I were free, and came face to face with him, I might. Not that I could say anything, or swear to anything for certain, for I did not see it done. No, master, I will not lie to you. Where would be the use? You are clever enough to find me out. But I had good reason to suspect, aye, to know, that the girl had other lovers, who pressed her hard, I dare say; some who were rich, while I was poor; some who were almost mad for her. She was followed by a dozen and more. She told me so herself, and used to laugh about it; but she never mentioned a name to me. You know something of women, master; they like the men to follow them--the best of them do--ladies as well as peasants. They were sent into the world to drive us to perdition. I was jealous of her, yes, I was jealous. Am I guilty because of that? How could I help being jealous when I loved her? It is in a man's blood. Well, then, what more can I say?"
In his intent observance of Gautran's manner the Advocate seemed to weigh every word that fell from the man's lips.
"At what time did you leave the girl on the last night you saw her alive?"
"At ten o'clock."
"She was alone at that hour?"
"Yes."
"Did you see her again after that?"
"No."
"Did you have reason to suspect that she was to meet any other man on that night?"
"If I had thought it, I should have stopped with her."
"For what purpose?"
"To see the man she had appointed to meet."
"And having seen him?"
"He would have had to answer to me. I am hot-blooded, master, and can stand up for my rights."
"Would you have harmed the girl?"
"No, unless she had driven me out of my senses."
"Were you in that state on the night of her death?"
"No--I knew what I was about."
"You were heard to quarrel with her."
"I don't deny it."
"You were heard to say you would kill her."
"True enough. I told her if ever I found out that she was false to me, I would kill her."
"Had she bound herself to marry you?"
"She had sworn to marry me."
"The handkerchief round her neck, when her body was discovered in the river, is proved to have been yours."
"It was mine; I gave it to her. I had not much to give."
"When you were arrested you were searched?"
"Yes."
"Was anything taken from you?"
"My knife."
"Had you and the girl's secret lover--supposing she had one--met on that night, you might have used your knife."
"That is speaking beforehand. I can't say what might have happened."
"Come here into the light. Let me look at your hands."
"What trick are you going to play me, master?" asked Gautran, in a suspicious tone.
"No trick," replied the Advocate sternly. "Obey me, or I leave you."
Gautran debated with himself in silence for a full minute; then, with an impatient movement, as though it could not matter one way or another, he moved into the light, and held out his hands.
The Advocate, taking a powerful glass from his pocket, examined the prisoner's fingers and nails and wrists with the utmost minuteness, Gautran, the while, wrapped in wonder at the strange proceeding.
"Now," said the Advocate, "hold your head back, so that the light may shine on your face."
Gautran obeyed, warily holding himself in readiness to spring upon the Advocate in case of an attack. By the aid of his glass the Advocate examined Gautran's face and neck with as much care as he had bestowed upon the hands, and then said:
"That will do."
"What is it all for, master?" asked Gautran.
"I am here to ask questions, not to answer them. Since your arrest, have you been examined as I have examined you?"
"No, master."
"Has any examination whatever been made of you by doctors or gaolers or lawyers?"
"None at all."
"How long had you known the girl?"
"Ever since she came into the neighbourhood."
"Were you not acquainted with her before?"
"No."
"From what part of the country did she come?"
"I can't say."
"Not knowing?"
"Not knowing."
"But being intimate with her, you could scarcely avoid asking her the question."
"I did ask her, and I was curious to find out. She would not satisfy me; and when I pressed her, she said the other one--Pauline--had made her promise not to tell."
"You don't know, then, where she was born?"
"No."
"Her refusal to tell you--was it lightly or seriously uttered?"
"Seriously."
"As though there was a secret in her life she wished to conceal?"
"I never thought of it in that way, but I can see now it must have been so."
"Something discreditable, then?"
"Most likely. Master, you go deeper than I do."
"What relationship existed between Pauline and Madeline?"
"Some said they were sisters, but there was a big difference in their ages. Others said that Pauline was her mother, but I don't believe it, for they never spoke together in that way. Master, I don't know what to say about it; it used to puzzle me; but it was no business of mine."
"Did you never hear Pauline address Madeline as her child?"
"Never."
"They addressed each other by their Christian names?"
"Yes."
"Did they resemble each other in feature?"
"There was something of a likeness between them."
"Why did Pauline leave the girl?"
"No one knew."
"That is all you can tell me?"
"That is all."
Then after a slight pause, the Advocate asked:
"Do you value your liberty?"
"Yes, master," replied Gautran excitedly.
"Let no person know what has passed between us, and do not repeat one word I have said to you."
"I understand; you may depend upon me. But master, will you not tell me something more? Am I to be set free or not?"
"You are to be tried; what is brought against you at your trial will establish either your innocence or your guilt."
He knocked at the door of the prison cell, and the gaoler opened it for him and let him out.
"Well, Gautran?" said the gaoler, but Gautran, wrapped in contemplation of the door through which the Advocate had taken his departure, paid no attention to him. "Do you hear me?" cried the gaoler, shaking his prisoner with no gentle hand.
"What now?"
"Is the great lawyer going to defend you?"
"You want to know too much," said Gautran, and refused to speak another word on the subject.
During the whole of the day there were but two figures in his mind--those of the Advocate and the murdered girl. The latter presented itself in various accusing aspects, and he vainly strove to rid himself of the spectre. Its hair hung in wild disorder over neck and bosom, its white lips moved, its mournful eyes struck terror to his soul. The figure of the Advocate presented itself in far different aspects; it was always terrible, Satanic, and damning in its suggestions.
"What matter," muttered Gautran, "if he gets me off? I can do as I please then."
In the evening, when the small window in his cell was dark, the gaoler heard him crying out loudly. He entered, and demanded what ailed the wretch.
"Light--light!" implored Gautran; "give me light!"
"Beast in human shape," said the gaoler; "you have light enough. You'll get no more. Stop your howling, or I'll stop it for you!"
"Light! light! light!" moaned Gautran, clasping his hands over his eyes. But he could not shut out the phantom of the murdered girl, which from that moment never left him. So he lay and writhed during the night, and would have dashed his head against the wall to put an end to his misery had he not been afraid of death.