have been an hour. Then suddenly the gong rang. It rang as if struck by a single hard stroke, sharp and loud, followed by a curious noise of something dropping and of an overturned chair.
On the alert, Marguerite rushed to the room, but on opening the door she drew back in terror of the impenetrable darkness. With pounding heart, and trembling all over, she called out in a low voice, panting for breath:
“Your Reverence, your Reverence.”
There was no answer, not a sound.
“My God, my God, what have they done, what has happened?”
She dare not go in nor dare she go back to fetch a light: she was seized with a wild desire to run away, to escape, to scream, although her limbs shook so violently that she could hardly stand. She repeated:
“Your Reverence, your Reverence, it is I, Marguerite.”
Suddenly, in spite of her fear, she felt she must save her master. One of those sudden fits of bravery that occasionally give women strength to perform heroic deeds filled her soul with the recklessness of terror, and running back to the kitchen, she fetched her lamp.
She stopped just inside the room. The first thing she saw was the vagabond lying against the wall, asleep or apparently asleep, then she saw the broken lamp, then under the table the black feet and black stockinged legs of Abbé Vilbois, whose head must have knocked the gong as he fell over on to his back.
Breathless with fright, her hands trembling, she repeated:
“My God, my God, what is the matter?”
As she stepped forward slowly, taking small steps, she slipped on something greasy and nearly fell down.
Leaning forward, she saw a red liquid trickling over the red flags and spreading around her feet; quickly she ran towards the door, sure that what she had seen was blood.
Mad with terror, she fled from the place and, throwing aside the lamp so that she might see nothing more, she rushed out of doors in the direction of the village. She lurched along, knocking against the trees, with eyes fixed on the distant lights, screaming at the top of her voice.
Her shrill cries pierced the night like the sinister call of the common owl, and she screamed without ceasing: “The tramp … the tramp … the tramp …”
When she reached the nearest houses, scared men came out and gathered around her, but she was too excited to answer their questions; she had completely lost her head.
Finally they understood that some accident had happened at the curé’s, and made up a party to go to his rescue.
The little pink-coloured house in the middle of the olive orchard was invisible, black in the deep, silent night. Ever since the one light from the illuminated window had gone out like a closed eye, the house had been drowned in shadow, lost in the darkness, undiscoverable to those not familiar with the countryside.
Lights were soon moving about over the ground, through the trees, in the direction of the house, throwing long, yellow rays on the burnt grass, and on the distorted trunks of the olives that looked like unreal monsters, like serpents of hell all twisted and misshapen. The beams projected in the distance suddenly showed up something whitish and vague in the darkness, then the low, square wall of the little house turned pink in the lantern-light. The lanterns were carried by the peasants, who accompanied two gendarmes with revolvers, the village constable, the mayor of the village, and Marguerite supported by some of the men, as she was in a state of collapse.
They hesitated for a minute in front of the still open, nightmarish doorway, but the inspector seized a lantern and entered, followed by the others.
The servant had not lied. The blood, now congealed, spread over the flags like a carpet. It had reached along as far as the vagabond, staining a leg and a hand.
Father and son were asleep. One, with cut throat, slept the everlasting sleep, the other slept the sleep of the drunkard. The two policemen threw themselves upon the latter and had handcuffed him before he awoke. He rubbed his eyes, stupefied, besotted with wine; when he saw the priest’s corpse he looked terrified, having no idea what had happened.
“Why ever did he not run away?” said the Mayor.
“He was too drunk,” replied the inspector.
They all agreed with him: it never occurred to anyone that Abbé Vilbois might have caused his own death.
Useless Beauty
I
A fashionable victoria, drawn by two magnificent black horses, stood at the doorstep of the mansion. It was about half past five on an evening towards the end of June, and between the gables which fenced the courtyard, gleamed the sky, full of bright light, heat and brilliance.
The Comtesse de Mascaret appeared on the doorstep exactly at the moment in which her husband, who was coming home, reached the gateway. He stopped for several seconds to watch his wife, and turned a little pale. She was very lovely, supple, noticeable for her long oval face, her complexion of old ivory, and her large grey eyes and black hair: she stepped into the carriage without glancing at him, without even appearing to have seen him, with a grace so extraordinarily well-bred that the hideous jealousy by which he had been so long devoured tore at his heart afresh. He went up to her, and, bowing:
“You’re going for a drive?” he said.
She let four words slip through her scornful lips:
“You see for yourself.”
“The park?”
“Probably.”
“May I be allowed to come with you?”
“The carriage is yours.”
Without surprise at the tone in which she answered him, he stepped in and seated himself beside his wife; then he gave the order: “The park.”
The footman leaped on to the seat beside the coachman and the horses, as they always did, pawed and tossed their heads until they had turned into the street.
The couple remained side by side without speaking. He sought how to begin the conversation, but she maintained so obstinately hard an expression
