"Three deaths," repeated Monsieur Dupont. "Of three very beautiful women."
The doctor sprang to his feet.
"My God!" he cried hoarsely.
"Will you tell me the story?" said Monsieur Dupont.
Doctor Lessing sat down again in his chair. He was considerably shaken. He leant back and closed his eyes, remaining silent for a few moments.
"I think," he began at last, "that I can, at all events, remember the chief facts of the case. It was such a remarkable and distressing one that it stands out in the annals of such a peaceful spot as this, and it has therefore remained in my memory, though so much else has faded. But you must make allowances for the flight of time. Look out of the window to the left, and you will see a large red house, on the slope of the hill."
"I see it," said Monsieur Dupont, following the direction.
"That was Oscar Winslowe's house, forty years ago. Winslowe was an unprincipled and dissolute man. He was only about twenty-five or six at that time, but already he was sodden with drink, drugs, and vice of every description. He was the worst kind of blackguard. But his wife was the exact opposite to him, a gentle, delicate girl. She was not beautiful, but her nature more than compensated for lack of beauty. He had married her for her money, and treated her abominably. I became friendly with her, partly because of the pity I felt for her on account of his treatment, and partly because I sincerely admired the beauty of her character. In consequence of that friendship, I undertook to watch over her entry into motherhood."
"That is what I want," said Monsieur Dupont. "Her entry into motherhood."
"The more I saw of her," continued the doctor, "the greater grew my pity. There have been wonderful women in the world who have made history by their patience and endurance—but this woman was one of those, equally brave and equally patient, of whom history knows nothing. She worshipped her husband, blindly, dumbly—as an animal will still love the man or woman who ill-treats it. She never uttered a word of complaint or blame. Her greatest hope was that the advent of the child would induce from him something of the consideration and tenderness that he had never given her. She believed it was some fault, some shortcoming, of hers that had kept it from her. It didn't occur to her that it might be the beauty of another woman."