“And now, Bruno, you understand why I bid you to marry our little Sidonie. She will make you happy. She is worthy of your love.—And when you are his wife, little one, remember and profit by my experience. When I am gone——”
“Oh, do not speak in that way!” protested Sidonie.
“Child, I am going away from here—far away from the frightful spot of my crime. I love my husband—too late, yes; but his memory shall be sacred to me even unto death. And now, before I go, let me feel that you two will be happy. You, my child, will be a true wife to him; but if you are ever inclined to test his love and jealousy, think of me, and be warned in time.”
“Fear not. Coquetry is not to my taste,” said the little cripple, sadly.
Bruno took her hand, and a smile of perfect love illumined her face.
Together they went away.
The following morning, upon going to the corner of the wood, two peasants found the Barrau cottage deserted. Under cover of the night, Catherine, true to her word, had silently stolen away. No traces of her were ever found, and to this day the people of St. Benoit speak in mysterious tones of her disappearance, and with an air of superstitious gravity tell the story of the gamekeeper’s murder.
At twenty-three a broken heart may heal, and one day in the springtime a pleasant little wedding fête was given in honor of Sidonie and her devoted Bruno.
Jeannille Marselon was present, and, though she did not speak, for once her face brightened with interest while she watched the lovelight shining in Bruno’s eyes as he bent down to kiss the upturned face, and to stroke the golden tresses of his fair young bride.