She did not speak. He simply said: "They made the plunge, they are both
dead--like Blaise."
Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment
their eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was
begun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead,
one atop of the other.
"Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how
much blood there is upon you!"
By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and
even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that
she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and would
ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final
revelation.
"You don't know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of the
murderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbed
and strangled one winter afternoon. I compassionately hid that from you.
But he would now be at the galleys had I spoken out! And if I were to
speak to-day you would be there too!"
That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of a
lump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled.
Pages:
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713