“That night, it seems, he followed us in his carriage to Alresca’s flat.  When I came out of the flat he was waiting.  He spoke.  I won’t tell you what he said, and I won’t tell you what I said.  But I was very curt and very cruel.”  Her voice trembled.  “I got into my carriage.  My God! how cruel I was!  To-night he—­my father—­has told me that he tried to kill himself with my mother’s dagger, there on the pavement.  I had driven him to suicide.”

She stopped.  “Do you blame me?” she murmured.

“I do not blame you,” I said.  “But he is dead, and death ends all things.”

“You are right,” she said.  “And he loved me at the last.  I know that.  And he saved my life—­you and he.  He has atoned—­atoned for his conduct to my poor mother.  He died with my kiss on his lips.”

And now the tears came into my eyes.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, and the pathos of her ringing tones was intolerable to me.  “You may well weep for me.”  Then with abrupt change she laughed.  “Don’t you agree that I am cursed?  Am I not cursed?  Say it! say it!”

“I will not say it,” I answered.  “Why should you be cursed?  What do you mean?”

“I do not know what I mean, but I know what I feel.  Look back at my life.  My mother died, deserted.  My father has died, killed by a mad woman.  My dear friend Alresca died—­who knows how?  Clarenceux—­he too died.”

“Stay!” I almost shouted, springing up, and the suddenness of my excitement intimidated her.  “How do you know that Lord Clarenceux is dead?”

I stood before her, trembling with apprehension for the effect of the disclosure I was about to make.  She was puzzled and alarmed by the violent change in me, but she controlled herself.

“How do I know?” she repeated with strange mildness.

“Yes, how do you know?  Did you see him die?”

I had a wild desire to glance over my shoulder at the portrait.

“No, my friend.  But I saw him after he was dead.  He died suddenly in Vienna.  Don’t let us talk about that.”

“Aha!” I laughed incredulously, and then, swiftly driven forward by an overpowering impulse, I dropped on my knees and seized her hands with a convulsive grasp.  “Rosa!  Rosa!”—­my voice nearly broke—­“you must know that I love you.  Say that you love me—­that you would love me whether Clarenceux were dead or alive.”

An infinite tenderness shone in her face.  She put out her hand, and to calm me stroked my hair.

“Carl!” she whispered.

It was enough.  I got up.  I did not kiss her.

A servant entered, and said that some one from the theatre had called to see mademoiselle on urgent business.  Excusing herself, Rosa went out.  I held open the door for her, and closed it slowly with a sigh of incredible relief.  Then I turned back into the room.  I was content to be alone for a little while.

Great God!  The chair which Rosa had but that instant left was not empty.  Occupying it was a figure—­the figure of the man whose portrait hung on the wall—­the figure of the man who had haunted me ever since I met Rosa—­the figure of Lord Clarenceux, whom Rosa had seen dead.