tle she fanned within my heart a hatred for the man whose wife she
was, my comrade in arms. I cannot relate the details, the stories of
wrong, the lies, the upbraidings which turned my blood to flame,
picturing him ever to me as a monster. Ah, it means much, Monsieur,
when such things are told with tears, when every sob rings in the ears
as though crying for vengeance. I listened, believing it all, until
deep in my heart hate was born. Once she showed me her shoulder, the
white flesh discolored as if by a blow, swearing that he did it. The
sight maddened me to action. I left her to seek him at the inn,
cursing in my teeth, and caring not what happened, so I killed him.
What boots now the insult offered which forced him to the field? I can
see his face yet, full of wonder at my words, doubting my very sanity;
yet I saw only her and that bruised shoulder. I would kill him, and I
did, running my sword through his body, and gazing down remorselessly
into his glazing eyes. What cared I for aught but her? It was a duel,
fairly fought, and I was safe from censure. God! in that hour it never
came to me that it was foul murder; that I had stricken down an
innocent man at the word of a harlot."

He stopped, his white face buried in his hands, his slender form
trembling. I remained motionless. With an effort he resumed.

"I went back to her at our trysting-place, intoxicated by my deed,
confident she would come to my arms in gratitude. Instead she laughed,
tore from her face the mask of innocence, called me fool, boasted that
she had merely used me for her own vile purposes. I shrank away,
horrified by my deed, despising her, my love stricken dead. In that
moment my life was changed; I cared for nothing except to get away from
my fellows, to expiate my sin in the sight of God. I felt no interest
in what became of her; I neither smiled nor wept, when, three days
later, she married the prefect of that village. All was over; the fire
within me had become ashes."

"But the woman? this Marie Fousard?"

"She went her way, the broad road leading to destruction. We met never
again, yet I heard, for there were those eager to tell such things. A
year, and the prefect was dead of poison, but, before the gendarmes
learned the truth, the widow fled by night taking much property. One
D'Anse was her paramour, a sub-lieutenant of hussars. 'T is all I
know; they took ship together at Marseilles. Mother of Mercy! wherever