“The most complete confidence, as you know.”

“Very well, then:  trust to my care.  This very evening I will prepare a draught for you to take to-morrow morning, and I will even now fix the duration of this terrible malady which frightens you so much.  In two days I shall fetch Edouard from his school to celebrate the beginning of your convalescence, and we will start, at latest, on February 1st.  You are astonished at what I say, but you shall see if I am not a good doctor, and much cleverer than many who pass for such merely because the have obtained a diploma.”

“Then, doctor, I will place myself in your hands.”

“Remember what I say.  You will leave this on February 1st.”

“To begin this cure, can you ensure my sleeping to-night?”

“Certainly.  I will go now, and send my wife to you.  She will bring a draught, which you must promise to take.”

“I will exactly follow your prescriptions.  Goodnight, my friend.”

“Good-night, madame; and take courage”; and bowing low, he left the room.

The rest of the evening was spent in preparing the fatal medicine.  The next morning, an hour or two after Madame de Lamotte had swallowed it, the maid who had given it to her came and told Derues the invalid was sleeping very heavily and snoring, and asked if she ought to be awoke.  He went into the room, and, opening the curtains, approached the bed.  He listened for some time, and recognised that the supposed snoring was really he death-rattle.  He sent the servant off into the country with a letter to one of his friends, telling her not to return until the Monday following, February 3rd.  He also sent away his wife, on some unknown pretext, and remained alone with his victim.

So terrible a situation ought to have troubled the mind of the most hardened criminal.  A man familiar with murder and accustomed to shed blood might have felt his heart sink, and, in the absence of pity, might have experienced disgust at the sight of this prolonged and useless torture; but Derues, calm and easy, as if unconscious of evil, sat coolly beside the bed, as any doctor might have done.  From time to time he felt the slackening pulse, and looked at the glassy and sightless eyes which turned in their orbits, and he saw without terror the approach of night, which rendered this awful ‘tete-a-tete’ even more horrible.  The most profound silence reigned in the house, the street was deserted, and the only sound heard was caused by an icy rain mixed with snow driven against the glass, and occasionally the howl of the wind, which penetrated the chimney and scattered the ashes.  A single candle placed behind the curtains lighted this dismal scene, and the irregular flicker of its flame cast weird reflections and dancing shadows an the walls of the alcove.  There came a lull in the wind, the rain ceased, and during this instant of calm someone knocked, at first gently, and then sharply, at the outer door.  Derues dropped the dying woman’s hand and bent forward to listen.  The knock was repeated, and he grew pale.  He threw the sheet, as if it were a shroud, over his victim’s head drew the curtains of the alcove, and went to the door.  “Who is there?” he inquired.