Count Hannibal

"She wishes to be alone," he said curtly.

"Alone?" Madame St. Lo cried, in a fever of curiosity. "You'll find her

dead, or worse! What? Leave a woman alone after such a fright as that!"

"She wishes it."

Madame laughed cynically; and the laugh brought a tinge of colour to his

brow.

"Oh, does she?" she sneered. "Then I understand! Have a care, have a

care, or one of these days, Monsieur, when you leave her alone, you'll

find them together!"

"Be silent!"

"With pleasure," she returned. "Only when it happens don't say that you

were not warned. You think that she does not hear from him--"

"How can she hear?" The words were wrung from him.

Madame St. Lo's contempt passed all limits. "How can she!" she retorted.

"You trail a woman across France, and let her sit by herself, and lie by

herself, and all but drown by herself, and you ask how she hears from her

lover? You leave her old servants about her, and you ask how she

communicates with him?"

"You know nothing!" he snarled.

"I know this," she retorted. "I saw her sitting this morning, and

smiling and weeping at the same time! Was she thinking of you, Monsieur?

Or of him? She was looking at the hills through tears; a blue mist hung

over them, and I'll wager she saw some one's eyes gazing and some one's

hand beckoning out of the blue!"

"Curse you!" he cried, tormented in spite of himself. "You love to make

mischief!"

"No!" she answered swiftly. "For 'twas not I made the match. But go

your way, go your way, Monsieur, and see what kind of a welcome you'll

get!"

"I will," Count Hannibal growled. And he started along the bank to

rejoin his wife.

The light in his eyes had died down. Yet would they have been more

sombre, and his face more harsh, had he known the mind of the woman to

whom he was hastening. The Countess had begged to be left alone; alone,

she found the solitude she had craved a cruel gift. She had saved the

packet. She had fulfilled her trust. But only to experience, the moment

the deed was done, the full poignancy of remorse. Before the act, while

the choice had lain with her, the betrayal of her husband had loomed

large; now she saw that to treat him as she had treated him was the true

betrayal, and that even for his own sake, and to save him from a fearful

sin, it had become her to destroy the letters.

Now, it was no longer her duty to him which loomed large, but her duty to

the innocent, to the victims of the massacre which she might have stayed,

to the people of her faith whom she had abandoned, to the women and

children whose death-warrant she had preserved. Now, she perceived that

a part more divine had never fallen to woman, nor a responsibility so

heavy been laid upon woman. Nor guilt more dread!