I see them filled with fireside talks, dips into musty volumes, walks in a long gallery, to the murmured music of water, and in frosty starlight, with the lamps of Beaufort lending cheerfulness to the scene. Sometimes an expedition to some castellated town, southward, and wanderings through vividly coloured streets, or among lovely hills, where winter flowers grew and sweetened the air, and the grey of the river was shot with blue, as it glided into sunnier regions. And then the friendly greetings upon return, and a child’s excited demand to know what I had seen, how far I had travelled, perhaps since morning, or the day before; above all, what I had brought back for her.
Beautiful calm days, already remembered regretfully as part of the for ever past! They will outlive, I hope, recent events, though they have sent them to slumber a while in the cemetery of the mind. For perturbation fell upon us, from the hour Mademoiselle and I stood watching a party of riders bear down toward us along the great road, like a picture sharply evoked from the time of postchaise and tragedy carried upon the momentous clatter of hoofs.
I had met Dr. Vermont, had spoken to him, and found he did not realise in any way my expectations. He was a well-bred man, as far as the superficialities of the drawing-room permitted me to judge. But his face was inexplicable and tormenting. It may once have been a strong face, but its strength was almost effaced by life. And yet there was no weakness about it—only an indifference that saps at strength. It could look daring and reckless, was never without a smile of quiet irony, and there was surely enough humorous observation in the mild brown eyes to fill his days with easy pleasure and interest. But was there not something worse than sadness behind this good-humoured mask? I thought so from the first, and my impression was soon justified by an incredible episode. I also believed that before the Doctor had been twenty-four hours in the house, he had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Lenormant. But why he should have wanted Anatole to marry her, I cannot understand. Surely, surely, he knew that she loved him! must have known it all along.
When he and his companions left the salon on that last evening, I said good-night at once to Mademoiselle. I almost reproached myself with seeing so much, divining so much that remained untold. I sat in my room with a pen in my hand, unable to write from excess of interest in what was going on around me. Why should peaceable modern men start off upon a midnight expedition in this mediæval fashion? Neither my own imagination could devise an adequate explanation, nor did I receive any assistance from the objects that surrounded me in Monsieur Lenormant’s room, which I attentively examined. How heavily, drearily the rain fell, and what an awful darkness outside! I stood at the window and listened to the midnight chimes from the cathedral and churches of Beaufort. On New Year’s Eve most people feel sentimental at this hour, and recall the various places and circumstances in which they have listened to the peal of bells upon the death of the old year. But this I felt to be a sadder occasion than any other New Year’s Eve, because a whole century was dying with it, the only century I was familiar with, and I rather shrank from trial of the new.
An extraordinary sound followed at once upon the last peal of the bells. It seemed so close, that it jerked me back from the window, quite shaken with the reverberation. There could be no doubt either of its nature or of the fact that it rose from some near point upon the island. It was more than a single pistol-shot. Now, the washerwomen could not have devised that singular method of saluting the new-born century. Neither could the chaplain of the Benedictines, who occupied an old, dark house at the end of the island upon our side. The wine-shop of Geraud always closed at nine o’clock, and on such a wet night no living soul would have crossed the bridge for the sake of his bad liquids.
I went to Mademoiselle’s room, anxious to hear what opinion she would have upon the startling occurrence.
‘Somebody has been murdered near us,’ she cried excitedly, when I entered.
‘Good heavens! what ought we to do?’
‘I don’t know what we ought to do, but what I should like to do would be to go and see for myself,’ she said, and looked questioningly at me.
‘You are a brave woman, Mademoiselle; I should have feared to propose it, but I will gladly accompany you.’