accomplished without her interference; but in order to act cautiously,
she began at once to object, for a woman's way is always at first to
oppose what she most desires.

"You are laughing at me, Count!" said she. "Where can we hope to find so
good a match again?"

"You need not be afraid," returned the Count, with a sneer; "you shall
have another son-in-law."

These words sent a pang through the heart of the Countess. Was it an
allusion to the past? or had the phrase dropped from her husband's lips
accidentally? or had he any suspicion of the influence that had been
brought to bear upon her? She, however, had plenty of courage, and would
rather meet misfortune fact to face than await its coming in dread.

"Of what other son-in-law are you speaking?" asked she negligently. "Has
any other suitor presented himself? May I ask his name? Do you intend to
settle my child's future without consulting me?"

"I do, madame."

A contemptuous smile crossed the face of the Countess, which goaded the
Count to fury.

"Am I not the master here?" exclaimed he in accents of intense rage.
"Am I not driven to the exercise of my power by the menaces of a pack of
villains who have wormed out the hidden secrets which have overshadowed
my life from my youth upward? They can, if they desire, drag my name
through the mire of infamy."

Madame de Mussidan bounded to her feet, asking herself whether her
husband's intellect had not given way.

"You commit a crime!" gasped she.

"I, madame, I myself! Does that surprise you? Have you never had any
suspicion? Perhaps you have not forgotten a fatal accident which took
place out shooting, and darkened the earlier years of our married life?
Well, the thing was not an accident, but a deliberate murder committed
by me. Yes, I murdered him, and this fact is known, and can be proved."

The Countess grew deadly pale, and extended her hand, as though to guard
herself from some coming danger.

"You are horrified, are you?" continued the Count, with a sneer.
"Perhaps I inspire you with horror; but do not fear; the blood is no
longer on my hands, but it is here, and is choking me." And as he spoke
he pressed his fingers upon his heart. "For twenty-three years I have
endured this hideous recollection and even now when I wake in the night
I am bathed in cold sweat, for I fancy I can hear the last gasps of the
unhappy man."

"This is horrible, too horrible!" murmured Madame de Mussidan faintly.

"A