The four walls of his chalet fell; he was sitting on the green sward, innumerable delicious odors filled the air with fragrance, bright-eyed flowers were about him, the birds twittered gayly, everywhere was life and gladness; but in the midst of all was a something incongruous, like a minor chord in a fair melody—a sound of low, sad singing, the voice as of one in pain. Maurice thought he knew the voice; turning suddenly, he saw his wife. She was walking steadily forward with a gliding step; a black robe covered her from head to foot; her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. He thought that he called her "Margaret!" but her eyes did not move, only her lips stirred as if in prayer. She glided past him, but before she had quite gone out of his reach he caught the hem of her dress. Then, while her heaven-turned face was slowly moving, while he was yearning to catch the gleam of her eyes, the vision passed, as visions will.
The whole had only lasted a few minutes, though it seemed to Maurice as if he had been long insensible. When reality and consciousness began slowly to assert their cold superiority it was absolute pain. At first he tried to deny them, in the vain hope that closed eyes and utter stillness would bring back the fair vision; then suddenly the vague uneasiness a watchful presence brings awoke him fully.
He started up, and saw by the failing light that he was not alone—he was being watched. Between him and the window a dark form was standing; keen, searching eyes scanned his face; they were those of his enemy. L'Estrange had found his way to the chalet. At last these two were face to face.
It was a rude awakening from a pleasant dream, and the very contrast between the fairness of the vision and the blackness of that reality which to Maurice's inflamed heart this man personified made his hatred more intense. It took him but a moment to start to his feet. His first impulse was to seize the intruder by the throat and cast him out; his very presence seemed a wanton insult. But L'Estrange met his gaze calmly, and Maurice checked himself: "Before I touch him I will get to the bottom of the mystery, and if he have betrayed her as well as me—"
He clenched his teeth and involuntarily smote his knotted fists together. For a few moments the men looked at one another in silence. Maurice spoke first, and his voice was like the growl of an angry lion: "What has brought you here?"
A sneer curled the Frenchman's lips: "No love to you, Mr. Grey, but—listen to me patiently, or I vow I will be silent for ever—a late repentance for an old wrong."
"Then—" There was a whole torrent of wrath pent up in the opening syllable.
"I tell you not to speak," cried his visitor, "or what I have come to say shall never be told. Maurice Grey, you are my enemy. You married the only woman I ever loved. This I could have forgiven; it was my fault, it was in the course of Nature; but you won her heart, the heart that once was mine. Yes, short-sighted Englishman, of this I can speak, for you knew it; she told you, and this it was that filled you with proud jealousy, that made you torment yourself. Yet it is true your wife loved you as she never loved me. I did not believe it then: now I know it. You gasp: well you may. That was my snare, and you fell into it. I see the letter; give it to me. Is it true, then, that with all your boasted knowledge of the world you could not read jealousy and spite under these fine phrases, made for me by a lying English servant? But yours is a strange nation. Clever and far-seeing where your money is in question, you are in knowledge of character, in all that touches your affections, easy to take in as little children. You frown impatiently. I shall soon have done. I tell you, Monsieur Grey, the meeting you interrupted that day was the first and only one that had taken place between your wife and me since your marriage. And the attitude in which you found me? Mon Dieu! nothing simpler—got up for you—un tableau vivant motivé. She was more surprised than you, la pauvrette!" His voice sank. "Since that day four long years have passed by. I have spent them in seeking her—persecuting her, if you like; so it was, so it must be. Her hatred is strong and bitter. I deserve it for misunderstanding her. But women have been my study all my life, and I never met her like before. You had less cause. What do you deserve? But do not answer me yet. Never fear, proud Englishman; your reckoning shall come by and by; my task must first be finished. She hid herself from me for a long time, but at last I came upon her in a miserable London lodging. The sight of me shocked and terrified her. She left London at once, and returned to the lonely place where she had lived in the closest retirement since your desertion. But, woman-like, she had left her address behind her. I found it out, followed her, forced myself upon her; and then at last, then first, I understood her. It was in the midst of deep loneliness—a loneliness which I saw by her face was killing her—that I found her out. She had one joy and consolation, a little daughter whom she had trained to love you, to wait and watch for your return. I spoke to her that day, but she repelled me with scorn and abhorrence. Maurice Grey, I offer for myself no excuse. I was mad with rage and pain. I determined to punish her. I stole her little one, and in such a way that she might think it had been done by you."
The Englishman could bear it no longer. He sprang forward, and seizing his enemy by the collar shook him vigorously:
"Villain! do you know what you deserve?"