Pale as the gown she wore, she reeled, and would have fallen had she not clutched the table for support.
Her passion was succeeded by blank, poignant despair. The bloodless lips were compressed firmly as she made a vain effort to shake off the terrible fear which had taken possession of her; but the soft, smooth brow contracted, and the handsome face became dark and gloomy. She could not put away the black forebodings; they clung to her; they clutched her mind with a desperate grasp, and she was powerless to resist them. Her whole frame shook with a feverish tremor, for she was conscious that fate was against her, and that the spirit of evil was hovering about her ready to drag her down to destruction.
Her lips quivered, but she stood motionless and mute in contemplation.
The strains of a dreamy waltz penetrating into the room jarred upon her nerves. She covered her ears with her hands to shut out the sound of gaiety, and waited patiently until it had ceased.
“If I leave here what will be my future?” she asked aloud in desperation. “I can do nothing—nothing. Hugh knows all—everything! I am already branded as a murderess—a woman who should be hunted down and delivered to justice! And what then? Suppose that cursed Gabrielle gave me up to the police?” She paused, and drew a long breath before continuing.
“La Roquette! The lunette!” she cried hoarsely. “I see them! I know how justice would punish me, and how my enemies, those who are jealous of my success, would triumph. No—no! Dieu! I couldn’t bear it—I—!”
A deep-drawn sob burst from her, and she hid her agonised face in her hands.
The stillness was only broken by the ticking of the tiny Dresden dock, the chimes of which, as it struck the hour, mingled with the sighs of the dejected woman.—Presently she raised her blanched face.
“Death!” she exclaimed in a husky whisper, looking half fearfully around, as if startled at the sound of her own voice. “Nothing else remains for me. There is no hope—no mercy—I am guilty—guilty! Sooner or later death will be the punishment of my crime, so why not now? If I escape from here, I shall only plunge into poverty and be tracked by the bloodhounds of the law. Ah! no! Sapristi! I prefer death!” With wild, wearied eyes she gazed slowly around, bewildered by her own suggestion.
“Yet am I so much to blame after all?” she soliloquised. “It was Victor’s suggestion—he taught me to commit robbery. He compelled me to commit murder. Dazzled by the prospect of wealth and luxury he held constantly before my eyes, I submitted. He made me his cat’s-paw to perpetrate crimes which he was too great a coward to commit himself, and when he found himself cornered he exposed me in order to deprive me of liberty and life. Had I never met the mean, contemptible scoundrel, I should have led as blameless a life as ordinary women, and remained the dutiful wife of Percy Willoughby, notwithstanding his ill-treatment.”