The morning was grey and dispiriting; the chill wind whirled the dead leaves in my path, and moaned through the bare branches as I walked up to the door of the cottage. My mind was perturbed by thoughts of what happiness might have resulted had I been true to the woman who loved me. I had spent a restless night at a roadside inn. Her misery tortured me, and, despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to again proffer assistance.
With trepidation I approached the door of the humble abode and knocked.
No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent.
About to repeat the summons, I noticed the door was ajar. Pushing it slowly open, I entered, at the same time uttering her name.
As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room, I at first saw nothing, but on glancing round the opposite side of the table, my eyes encountered a terrible sight.
Stretched upon the floor, Mariette was lying partly dressed, the pale light falling upon her upturned features. The cheeks and lips were bloodless; the eyes, wide-open, were staring wildly into space with a look of indescribable horror.
Falling upon my knees, I touched her face with my hand.
It was cold as marble. She was dead!
In her white breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed.
She had been murdered!