“‘There is your room,’ she said. ‘You need have no fear—the linen is well aired, and of course,’ she added, slightly sniffing, ‘you may, if you like, open the windows. We have been obliged to keep them closed, owing to the damp. Good-night!’
“She turned to go, and just for the fraction of a second I saw her face. It was exquisite. My wife will pardon me for saying my wildest dreams of woman’s beauty were not merely rivalled, they were surpassed. I doubt even if so great a painter of feminine charms as Richter could have done her credit. Who was she? I kept asking myself that question long after she had left me, and the echoes of her high-heeled shoes along the passage and down the stairs had ceased. Who was she? Ma foi! The vision of such loveliness would never leave me. I would enjoy them over and over again in my sleep. Indeed, I was so obsessed with her face that I paid little or no heed to the novelty of the situation. At other times I might have queried the desirability of being in a strange bedroom in a strange house—in the dark. But the knowledge she was near at hand was quite enough for me. I was already in love with her—and the queerest, the most perplexing of predicaments were as nothing to me. I soared above—God alone knew how high above—dilemmas. Still, when I came to argue it out with myself, it was a bit of a nuisance my matches were sodden and I could not use them. I would have preferred seeing the bed upon which I was to lie, and a spot where I could lay my clothes. I was so afraid of soiling the upholstery that I undressed where I stood, and then, making a guess at the direction of the bed, walked cautiously forward. By a piece of luck, which struck me as somewhat extraordinary, I collided with the bedstead—a large brass one—almost immediately.
“It was the work of a second to throw back the sheets and scramble in between them, and then, with my mind full to overflowing with visions of my newly-found goddess, I entrusted both her and my father to the safe keeping of the Virgin and the Saints—this though I had no faith in a future for myself—and sank into a deep refreshing sleep.
“How long I remained in that condition I never knew. I woke with a start to find the room no longer dark, but partially illuminated with a fitful red glow which proceeded from the stove, now full of lurid logs. Thinking I must be dreaming, I rubbed my eyes. But no; the fire was still there, and even as I gazed at it I caught the sound of approaching footsteps—the sharp rat-tat of high-heeled shoes. Nearer and nearer they came, right up to the entrance of my room, when, to my astonishment and no little embarrassment, the door gently opened, and in tip-toed the object of my admiration. In one hand she carried a long-handled iron spoon, and in the other a candle. I was entranced. Now that she had taken off her hood and cloak, beauties hitherto concealed stood out in dazzling fulness and bewitched me. Never had I seen such a wealth of rich golden hair, such a perfect nose and chin, such tiny ears, carmine lips, white teeth, black-lashed, china-blue eyes, white tapering fingers, rosy, almond-shaped nails, and such a heavenly figure. My wife, Mr. O’Donnell, bears me no animosity. You don’t, do you, Jacqueline?”
“No, no,” Mrs. Armand laughed. “I understand you. All men are the same. Go on and tell Mr. O’Donnell more about your goddess.”
“You are right,” Bertram Armand exclaimed. “She was a goddess—at least my idea of one, then. What did she want? I sat up in bed, and was about to speak to her, when she laid a finger on her lips and smilingly bade me be silent. She then glided to the grate, and taking from her pocket a small lump of lead, carefully put it into the spoon, which she balanced with the utmost care on the brightest of the faggots. That done, she again smiled meaningly at me, and walking to the dainty dressing-table, strewn profusely with rings and bracelets, looked long and critically at herself in the mirror. It was while she was thus occupied that I suddenly became conscious of something or someone close to me. In a moment my heart ceased to beat; in deadly fear I glanced round, and perceived, lying by my side, an old man with long, grizzled hair and beard, whose features were somehow vaguely familiar to me. He was sound asleep—a fact betrayed by his breathing, which was loud and stertorious. A slight movement from the other part of the room attracting my attention, I looked up, just in time to see the girl flash me a look of subtle warning.
“‘Don’t wake him, whatever you do,’ her eyes said; ‘he must sleep on.’
“‘Don’t wake him,’ I repeated to myself; ‘why, of course I won’t. I wouldn’t do anything—no matter what—if you told me not to; I would obey you even at the risk of life and soul!’ Dieu en ciel! How lovely!
“Cautiously—first one daintily clad foot and then the other—the girl approached the stove. She lifted the spoon carefully from the fire, bore it steadily before her to the bed, and gaily motioning to me to keep quiet, she gently turned the sleeper’s head over on the pillow, and with a dexterous movement of her clever, supple fingers, poured the seething, hissing lead into his ear. There was an agonising scream—the eyes of the old man opened convulsively, and in the brief glimpse I caught of them, I recognised my father.