Said P. C. Breagh, seized with a shudder that knocked his knees together, and speaking in a low voice:
"I—I beg of Your Excellency to spare her your irony.... Madame de Bayard is dead!"
"So!..."
The Minister's ejaculation was followed by the order:
"Now the details!... Has she died naturally, or by accident—or by a murderer's hand?"
P. C. Breagh said, lowering his voice apprehensively:
"She was killed by a shell. There was a bombardment from Mont Valérien.... It broke out at about a quarter past two this morning—just as I reached the Villa Laon...."
"Ah! now I understand how you got that love token on your forehead!" said the Minister.
Breagh nodded, and wiped his wet forehead with a blood-stained handkerchief, and shuddered and went on:
"Nobody had gone to bed when I got to the villa. The blinds of what I could see was a dining-room were drawn up and the curtains all drawn back. The room was brilliantly lighted, lots of mirrors and crystal girandoles. It was like a scene on the stage, looking at it from the snowy garden. Shin-deep in snow, because the paths had not been cleared.... You could not tell where the paths were, in fact, so I steered my course by the big shining window. Then I saw him, moving before me——"