The Woman of Mystery. Leblanc Maurice

kept returning to his seething brain, in which his ideas and impressions whirled like leaves in the wind; one terrible thought:

      "I know the woman who killed my father; and that woman's daughter is the woman whom I love."

      Did he still love her? No doubt, he was desperately mourning a happiness which he knew to be shattered; but did he still love Élisabeth? Could he love Hermine d'Andeville's daughter?

      When he went indoors at daybreak and passed Élisabeth's room, his heart beat no faster than before. His hatred of the murderess destroyed all else that might stir within him: love, affection, longing, or even the merest human pity.

      The torpor into which he sank for a few hours relaxed his nerves a little, but did not change his mental attitude. Perhaps, on the contrary, and without even thinking about it, he was still more unwilling than before to meet Élisabeth. And yet he wanted to know, to ascertain, to gather all the essential particulars and to make quite certain before taking the resolve that would decide the great tragedy of his life in one way or another.

      Above all, he must question Jérôme and his wife, whose evidence was of no small value, owing to the fact that they had known the Comtesse d'Andeville. Certain matters concerning the dates, for instance, might be cleared up forthwith.

      He found them in their lodge, both of them greatly excited, Jérôme with a newspaper in his hand and Rosalie making gestures of dismay.

      "It's settled, sir," cried Jérôme. "You can be sure of it: it's coming!"

      "What?" asked Paul.

      "Mobilization, sir, the call to arms. You'll see it does. I saw some gendarmes, friends of mine, and they told me. The posters are ready."

      Paul remarked, absent-mindedly:

      "The posters are always ready."

      "Yes, but they're going to stick them up at once, you'll see, sir. Just look at the paper. Those swine – you'll forgive me, sir, but it's the only word for them – those swine want war. Austria would be willing to negotiate, but in the meantime the others have been mobilizing for several days. Proof is, they won't let you cross into their country any more. And worse: yesterday they destroyed a French railway station, not far from here, and pulled up the rails. Read it for yourself, sir!"

      Paul skimmed through the stop-press telegrams, but, though he saw that they were serious, war seemed to him such an unlikely thing that he did not pay much attention to them.

      "It'll be settled all right," he said. "That's just their way of talking, with their hand on the sword-hilt; but I can't believe."

      "You're wrong, sir," Rosalie muttered.

      He no longer listened, thinking only of the tragedy of his fate and casting about for the best means of obtaining the necessary replies from Jérôme. But he was not able to contain himself any longer and he broached the subject frankly:

      "I daresay you know, Jérôme, that madame and I have been to the Comtesse d'Andeville's room."

      The statement produced an extraordinary effect upon the keeper and his wife, as though it had been a sacrilege to enter that room so long kept locked, the mistress' room, as they called it among themselves.

      "You don't mean that, sir!" Rosalie blurted out.

      And Jérôme added:

      "No, of course not, for I sent the only key of the padlock, a safety-key it was, to Monsieur le Comte."

      "He gave it us yesterday morning," said Paul.

      And, without troubling further about their amazement, he proceeded straightaway to put his questions:

      "There is a portrait of the Comtesse d'Andeville between the two windows. When was it hung there?"

      Jérôme did not reply at once. He thought for a moment, looked at his wife, and then said:

      "Why, that's easily answered. It was when Monsieur le Comte sent all his furniture to the house.. before they moved in."

      "When was that?"

      Paul's agony was unendurable during the three or four seconds before the reply.

      "Well?" he asked.

      When the reply came at last it was decisive:

      "Well, it was in the spring of 1898."

      "Eighteen hundred and ninety-eight!"

      Paul repeated the words in a dull voice: 1898 was the year of his father's murder!

      Without stopping to reflect, with the coolness of an examining magistrate who does not swerve from the line which he has laid out, he asked:

      "So the Comte and Comtesse d'Andeville arrived."

      "Monsieur le Comte and Madame le Comtesse arrived at the castle on the 28th of August, 1898, and left for the south on the 24th of October."

      Paul now knew the truth, for his father was murdered on the 19th of September. And all the circumstances which depended on that truth, which explained it in its main details or which proceeded from it at once appeared to him. He remembered that his father was on friendly terms with the Comte d'Andeville. He said to himself that his father, in the course of his journey in Alsace, must have learnt that his friend d'Andeville was living in Lorraine and must have contemplated paying him a surprise visit. He reckoned up the distance between Ornequin and Strasburg, a distance which corresponded with the time spent in the train. And he asked:

      "How far is this from the frontier?"

      "Three miles and three-quarters, sir."

      "On the other side, at no great distance, there's a little German town, is there not?"

      "Yes, sir, Èbrecourt."

      "Is there a short-cut to the frontier?"

      "Yes, sir, for about half-way: a path at the other end of the park."

      "Through the woods?"

      "Through Monsieur le Comte's woods."

      "And in those woods."

      To acquire total, absolute certainty, that certainty which comes not from an interpretation of the facts but from the facts themselves, which would stand out visible and palpable, all that he had to do was to put the last question: in those woods was not there a little chapel in the middle of a glade? Paul Delroze did not put the question. Perhaps he thought it too precise, perhaps he feared lest it should induce the gamekeeper to entertain thoughts and comparisons which the nature of the conversation was already sufficient to warrant. He merely asked:

      "Was the Comtesse d'Andeville away at all during the six weeks which she spent at Ornequin? For two or three days, I mean?"

      "No, sir, Madame le Comtesse never left the grounds."

      "She kept to the park?"

      "Yes, sir. Monsieur le Comte used to drive almost every afternoon to Corvigny or in the valley, but Madame la Comtesse never went beyond the park and the woods."

      Paul knew what he wanted to know. Not caring what Jérôme and his wife might think, he did not trouble to find an excuse for his strange series of apparently disconnected questions. He left the lodge and walked away.

      Eager though he was to complete his inquiry, he postponed the investigations which he intended to pursue outside the park. It was as though he dreaded to face the final proof, which had really become superfluous after those with which chance had supplied him. He therefore went back to the château and, at lunch-time, resolved to accept this inevitable meeting with Élisabeth. But his wife's maid came to him in the drawing-room and said that her mistress sent her excuses. Madame was not feeling very well and asked did monsieur mind if she took her lunch in her own room. He understood that she wished to leave him entirely free, refusing, on her side, to appeal to him on behalf of a mother whom she respected and, if necessary, submitting beforehand to whatever eventual decision her husband might make.

      Lunching by himself under the eyes of the butler and footman waiting at table, he felt in the utmost depths of his heart that his happiness was gone and that Élisabeth and he, thanks to circumstances for which neither of them was responsible, had on the very day