“It is so much like my own,” he replied.
This, then, was the explanation of his distress. I had attributed it to madness but it was really only the expression of a protracted agony, of a secret that had been kept too long and was now perhaps ripe for confidence. He continued to accuse himself in broken phrases.
“It was I who killed her, do you understand? Some murderers are less cruel. They only strike once. They do not kill gradually, by a slow fire. She forgave me. And I—instead of expiating my crime, I am preparing to commit another. Oh, I hoped, I dared, to take up my life again. Since my return here, the past has gripped me, possessed me absolutely again, and I feel a savage pleasure in coming back to it—”
Without any farewell, he turned away, in what direction I could not tell. Night enveloped us. I lost sight of him almost immediately, and returned to my quarters at Sylve-Benite, surprised and dumbfounded by such an unexpected revelation, a revelation which the future was so strangely to fulfil.
* * *
After a farewell day of fairly good shooting I prepared to leave Sylve-Benite, despite the peace and quiet that I had enjoyed there, and I was collecting my luggage when Raymond Cernay called upon me. He charged up at a full gallop, on M. Mairieux’s horse, and the hardy animal must have been pushed beyond reason for he was badly blown. It was five or six days after our singular meeting. Cernay noticed my preparations and demanded abruptly:
“You are leaving.”
“As you see,” said I.
“Where are you going?”
“I am going home.”