Forty-eight hours later the gamekeeper was buried. L’Ours, leaving the cemetery with Sidonie, passed the cottage of Mother Mathurine.

“Bruno,” said he, stopping at the gate, “Madame Catherine wishes to see you.”

“Me?” asked Bruno, turning pale.

Sidonie visibly trembled as, noticing his expression, she inwardly said: “How he loves her!”

“What does she want of me?” demanded Bruno, with glowing face, when he had recovered his self-possession.

A wild dream that she, now being free, could love him filled his heart with rapture.

“She wishes to do what is right,” replied Jean, “and has a word to say to you.”

“Must I go at once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am ready.”

“Come, little one. You must accompany us.”

“Oh, no! Why should I go?”

“Because she wishes to speak to you, too.”

A quarter of an hour afterward the three entered Catherine’s presence.

“Thanks, Jean, for bringing them here; and you, my young friends, I thank you for coming.”

“Now I must go,” said Jean. “Good-by—all.”

He opened the door, and Sidonie watched him anxiously as he departed.

Catherine asked them to be seated.

She was no longer the charming, gracious woman they had known. Two days of sorrow and shame and remorse had changed her into a sad-eyed woman, and every feature betrayed the suffering she had undergone. She extended her hand to little Sidonie.

“You love Bruno, little one, do you not? Tell me frankly.”

“Yes,” murmured Sidonie, hiding her blushing face.

“Then, my children, you must be married. My shadow must not stand between you.”

Bruno quickly rose.

“No, no, Madame. If I were to marry, I should choose Sidonie. But I shall never marry.”

“Why?”

“You know the reason, Madame.”

“Because of your love for me?”

Bruno was silent.

“You are wrong. A strange infatuation has governed you, which time and our brave little Sidonie will cure. At heart I am responsible for my husband’s death, because I wished it, and I even suggested to two men the idea of avenging me. One of those men was Firmin; the other was you, Bruno.”

Bruno here made an impatient gesture, as though to silence her. But she continued in a low tone: “You see, it was not for the sake of friendship, but to be revenged. But I did not deceive you. You thought me guilty.”

Bruno again tried to quiet her.

“Do not deny it, Bruno. When you confessed the crime it was to shield me, for you believed me guilty. And so I was in intent, though I did not perform the deed. All night I waited expecting to hear the shot which should make me free. At last it came. And oh, the agony of that moment!”

A profound stillness supervened. Sidonie, with tearful eyes, gazed at Catherine. Bruno was deeply affected as he saw the once beautiful woman torn with grief and remorse. In gasps she told them of the horrible night she had passed; of the bloody fingers that seemed always to clasp her cheek; of the ghastly discovery at early dawn. All this she told them without trying to palliate her part in it. Her suffering was pitiful.

“God knows how penitent I am, and to him alone can I turn in my anguish and wickedness. Every moment those bloody fingers seem burning into my flesh. That is my just punishment. It will follow me wherever I go. I cannot escape. The blood of my innocent husband will be forever on my head. My hands will wear the crimson stain so long as I live. My cheek will always bear the marks of bloody fingers. My poor Savin’s legacy to me is a legacy of blood!”

She paused in a paroxysm of passion.

“And now, Bruno, you understand why I bid you to marry our little Sidonie. She will make you happy. She is worthy of your love.—And when you are his wife, little one, remember and profit by my experience. When I am gone——”

“Oh, do not speak in that way!” protested Sidonie.

“Child, I am going away from here—far away from the frightful spot of my crime. I love my husband—too late, yes; but his memory shall be sacred to me even unto death. And now, before I go, let me feel that you two will be happy. You, my child, will be a true wife to him; but if you are ever inclined to test his love and jealousy, think of me, and be warned in time.”

“Fear not. Coquetry is not to my taste,” said the little cripple, sadly.

Bruno took her hand, and a smile of perfect love illumined her face.

Together they went away.

The following morning, upon going to the corner of the wood, two peasants found the Barrau cottage deserted. Under cover of the night, Catherine, true to her word, had silently stolen away. No traces of her were ever found, and to this day the people of St. Benoit speak in mysterious tones of her disappearance, and with an air of superstitious gravity tell the story of the gamekeeper’s murder.

At twenty-three a broken heart may heal, and one day in the springtime a pleasant little wedding fête was given in honor of Sidonie and her devoted Bruno.

Jeannille Marselon was present, and, though she did not speak, for once her face brightened with interest while she watched the lovelight shining in Bruno’s eyes as he bent down to kiss the upturned face, and to stroke the golden tresses of his fair young bride.

THE END.

FOOTNOTE