enabled her to make poor, blinded fool—­her helpless slave for evil.  Merciful Mary! how I did worship her!  To me she was as an angel; divinity lurked in her smile and found utterance upon her lips.  I could have died at her word, happy to know it was her pleasure.  Yet, as I know now, all the love-making between us was no more than play to her; she merely sought to amuse herself with my passion through a dull season.  No, not quite all, for back of her smiles lurked a purpose so dark, so diabolical, ’twas not strange I failed to fathom it.  ’Tis hard to associate crime with such young womanhood, to feel that evil thoughts lurk behind eyes soft with love and lips breathing tenderness.  Yet behind the outer angel of Marie Fousard there was a devil incarnate.  I was blind, crazed, helpless to resist an evil I failed to perceive.  I loved her; in that passion all else was lost.  She had confessed love for me; in that was all the heaven I desired.  Little by little she fanned within my heart a hatred for the man whose wife she was, my comrade in arms.  I cannot relate the details, the stories of wrong, the lies, the upbraidings which turned my blood to flame, picturing him ever to me as a monster.  Ah, it means much, Monsieur, when such things are told with tears, when every sob rings in the ears as though crying for vengeance.  I listened, believing it all, until deep in my heart hate was born.  Once she showed me her shoulder, the white flesh discolored as if by a blow, swearing that he did it.  The sight maddened me to action.  I left her to seek him at the inn, cursing in my teeth, and caring not what happened, so I killed him.  What boots now the insult offered which forced him to the field?  I can see his face yet, full of wonder at my words, doubting my very sanity; yet I saw only her and that bruised shoulder.  I would kill him, and I did, running my sword through his body, and gazing down remorselessly into his glazing eyes.  What cared I for aught but her?  It was a duel, fairly fought, and I was safe from censure.  God! in that hour it never came to me that it was foul murder; that I had stricken down an innocent man at the word of a harlot.”

He stopped, his white face buried in his hands, his slender form trembling.  I remained motionless.  With an effort he resumed.

“I went back to her at our trysting-place, intoxicated by my deed, confident she would come to my arms in gratitude.  Instead she laughed, tore from her face the mask of innocence, called me fool, boasted that she had merely used me for her own vile purposes.  I shrank away, horrified by my deed, despising her, my love stricken dead.  In that moment my life was changed; I cared for nothing except to get away from my fellows, to expiate my sin in the sight of God.  I felt no interest in what became of her; I neither smiled nor wept, when, three days later, she married the prefect of that village.  All was over; the fire within me had become ashes.”