And he immediately realized that his fears
were justified when he had to knock three times at Norine's door before
Cecile, having recognized his voice, removed the articles with which it
had been barricaded, and admitted him inside. Norine was in bed, quite
ill, and as white as her sheets. She began to sob and shuddered
repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin's visit the previous
month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who had seen the bag and had
heard the promise of further help, at a certain hour on a certain date.
Besides, Norine could have no doubts, for the handkerchief found round
the victim's neck was one of hers which Alexandre had stolen: a
handkerchief embroidered with the initial letters of her Christian name,
one of those cheap fancy things which are sold by thousands at the big
linendrapery establishments. That handkerchief, too, was the only clew to
the murderers, and it was such a very vague one that the police were
still vainly seeking the culprits, quite lost amid a variety of scents
and despairing of success.
Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good
God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her
younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the
woods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing
themselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade
of the pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded
beneath the branches like the twittering of song birds.
Pages:
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633