CHAPTER XXXIX.—DUST TO DUST.

Let us draw a veil over the horrors and sorrows of that night. It is enough to say that the distracted husband, when he had recovered from the first paralysing shock of the spectacle, recognised without hesitation in the distorted and disfigured mass the remains of his beloved wife. But, indeed, there was no room for doubt. The form and complexion were the same, and the bracelets with their inscription placed the identity beyond question. Not without difficulty did Sutherland and the police officials persuade Forster to leave the corpse’s side. He would fain have remained by it, watching and praying, till daybreak; but at last they prevailed, and Sutherland helped him home. His grief was, indeed, piteous to behold. After the first wild ebullition, he scarcely wept; his face was like a stone, set in horror and despair; only from to time he uttered a wild, heart-rending moan, and shivered through all his frame like a man struck by ague. So he was led home to his lonely house, to the care of his sister, who was stirred to the depths for his sake, and watched him with infinite tenderness.

Early the next morning Sutherland called, and Miss Forster rejoiced to see him and accepted with eagerness his offer of personal assistance. All night long her brother had remained like one physically crushed and broken, always conscious and uttering intermittent cries of pain. At daybreak he would have flown down to Putney, but they restrained him almost by main force, yet with less difficulty than might have been anticipated, for his strong will seemed shattered and all his spirit clouded as by a frightful dream.

Of course, under the circumstances, a public inquest was unavoidable. At the inquest, evidence of identity was given. Forster claimed the remains as those of his wife, and a sympathetic jury returned a verdict of ‘Accidentally drowned.’ Society was for some days slightly agitated on the subject, the general impression being that the unfortunate lady, for some unexplained reason, had committed suicide. For a marvel, the so-called society journals preserved a decent silence; the fact being that Sutherland, in his capacity of self-constituted champion, had interviewed both Lagardère and Yahoo, and extracted from them, jointly and severally, a promise to abstain from any immediate allusions to the case. How he effected this object has never been disclosed; but he was, as we know, a determined man, and possibly the gentlemen perceived that publication would make a corporal chastisement inevitable. They were the more willing to forego their usual carrion as they were greatly exercising their readers at that time in speculations as to whether a certain Italian prima donna who shall be nameless was or was not the daughter of an itinerant pieman in the Seven Dials, and as to what were the precise relations between the Prince of Scotland and Mademoiselle Schwangau, the charming topical singer of the Parisian cafés chantants.

So it came to pass that the poor remains, in a sealed coffin, were taken to Queen’s Gate, and remained there until the day fixed for a quiet funeral. Most of the necessary arrangements were superintended by Sutherland, who had, as if almost by right, quietly established himself as a friend of the family. The brother and sister accepted his services gratefully, and almost without a word of explanation.

The funeral took place at Kensal Green. The only followers were Forster and his new acquaintance. At the grave the former utterly broke down, his wild tears flowing for the first time.

The two men returned to Forster’s house together.

‘I shall never forget your kindness,’ said Forster, during an interval of comparative calmness. ‘May God bless you for it! I am a broken man now, and have nothing left to live for; but while I live let us be friends.’

And he wrung the young man’s hands.

‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ replied Sutherland. ‘What I have done for you, I would, of course, do for any fellow-man in distress. But I had a deep respect, a profound sympathy, for your wife.’

‘Though, as I understand, you scarcely knew her,’ said Forster, not without a certain wistful curiosity.

‘I could not be said to know her at all. We met twice or thrice, almost as strangers, and then I saw her performances at the Parthenon.’

‘We were so happy,’ cried Forster, with a sudden access of passionate emotion; ‘and she was so good! All goodness—all goodness! God knows under what misconceptions she left my roof. But I know she had an enemy, and perhaps——’

‘Can you bear to speak of that!’ interrupted Sutherland. ‘Hitherto I have forborne from touching on the subject, but with your permission I should like to say a few words now.’

‘Do so—I will try to attend.’

‘You are aware that Mrs. Forster was acquainted with a Frenchman, named Gavrolles, now in London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know—forgive me if I pain you—the nature of her relations with him?’

‘I think I do,’ returned Forster. ‘Before my darling’s guardian died, he confided to me that, when quite a child, she had been betrayed into a mock marriage with a foreigner, who almost immediately abandoned her. I knew this when I married her. I have no doubt that this Gavrolles is the same man; that he again thrust himself in her way; that, in order to avoid him, and dreading some misunderstanding on my part, she yielded to a wild impulse and—and——’

But here Forster broke down sobbing, and hid his face in his hands. Deeply moved, Sutherland touched him gently on the shoulder, as he said:—

‘I think it has all been as you say. With regard to Mrs. Forster’s first acquaintance with this man, I can myself tell you something which will, I think, convince you of her innocence in the matter.’ Sutherland thereupon briefly recounted his first meeting with Madeline in the hotel at Fecamp, his suspicions of her companions, his offers of assistance; and explained also briefly the part he had taken afterwards, when they met again in Paris—saying nothing, however, of his own temporary misconception of Madeline’s true character, but describing the manner in which, on her abandonment by her pseudo-husband, he had restored her into the hands of her guardian.

‘That is all I know,’ he said in conclusion, ‘and I think it is enough to justify you in your noble faith in Mrs. Forster’s honour. From first to last, when a mere child, she was this man’s victim, and so sure as there is a God above us, her death lies at his door.’

Trembling with agitation, Forster rose to his feet.

‘Where is he? Let me see him! Yes, you are right—he has killed her. Tell me where he is, that I may find him out, and——’

At this moment a servant entered, bearing a card. A gentleman, he said, was waiting below desirous of seeing Mr. Forster on most important business. Almost mechanically Forster took the card and glanced at it. As he read the inscription upon it, he uttered a sharp cry and turned deathly pale.

Graven on the card, in fantastic letters, with many characteristic flourishes, was the name—

M. Auguste de Gavrolles.

The first shock of surprise over, Forster glanced up and found that Sutherland’s eyes were bent inquiringly upon his. He handed him the card.

‘My wish has been answered,’ he said with ominous calmness. ‘The very man I most wished to see is here, only I had rather the meeting had taken place beneath any roof but mine;’ then turning to the servant, he added, ‘Show the person into the drawing-room, and say I will come to him.’

The servant retired, and once more Sutherland and Forster were left alone. Sutherland stood as if transfixed, with the elegant piece of pasteboard bearing the Frenchman’s name held still before his eyes; while Forster, bereft now of all his calmness, paced excitedly up and down the room. The sight of the Frenchman’s name at such a time almost transformed him into a madman. Trembling from head to foot, yet pale as death, he at last rushed to the door, when Sutherland laid his hand upon his shoulder to detain him.

‘I see you have made up your mind to meet the man.’ ‘I have.’

‘Well, so far I think you have done well, but before you meet him will you listen to some advice from me?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing against your own interest or hers. I know that if you had descended the stairs two minutes ago you would either have strangled this Frenchman or thrashed him within an inch of his life. Your conduct would have been justifiable, but not wise. You yourself would have regretted it before the morning. Be sure retribution shall come to him, though it may not come to-night. Now, I want you to forget for a time that this scoundrel ever intended the slightest harm to your dead wife.’

‘My God!’

‘I know the task will be a hard one, but remember it is for her sake. So far he has played his cards well. He knows even now that his person is sacred, because, if in your grief and anger you were tempted to assault him, you would only be the means of scandalising the name of the departed.’

‘Mr. Sutherland, what does all this mean?’

‘Only this. I want you to do me a favour. Will, you? Yes or no?’

‘Yes, certainly, if I can.’

‘Let me still be the champion of your wife?’

‘What!’

‘It is for her sake, remember. She shall be avenged but she must not be scandalised. This Frenchman has some deep motive in coming here. It would be well for both our sakes that I should learn what this motive is. Will you interview him in this room, and conceal me in some place where I can hear your conversation?’

At first Forster protested. To meet the Frenchman in a seemingly amiable spirit seemed beyond him, but Sutherland was so urgent in his pleading that at length his point was won. Forster yielded for Madeline’s sake.

There was a small lavatory adjoining the study—into this Sutherland retired, leaving the door ajar. Forster by a tremendous effort controlled his agitation, and, ringing the bell, ordered the Frenchman to be shown in to him.

Gavrolles entered the room.

He was neatly clad in black, and on his white face there was a grave look of sorrow. As the door closed behind him, he stepped daintily forward to where Forster sat, and as he did so a sickly perfume seemed to penetrate the whole atmosphere. Forster raised his head, looked at the Frenchman’s outstretched hand, but did not move.

‘Ah, monsieur,’ exclamed Gavrolles, ‘how shall I thank you for this interview? I know, monsieur, I must be de trop at such a time as this, but I am as it were a mere machine. I follow not my own inclinations, but the force of circumstances; they have brought me here.’

‘Is this what you have come to say to me?’ asked Forster coldly.

‘Not all, by no means all,’ returned the Frenchman eagerly; ‘but before we proceed to business I must express to you, monsieur, my deep condolence in a great affliction which has befallen you!’

Forster’s face grew livid, he half rose from his chair; then remembering his promise to Sutherland he sank back again with a groan.

‘Be careful,’ he said sternly. ‘If you come here on business, pray state it without further preamble; at all events be good enough not to allude again to my domestic affairs.’

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned upon Forster a pair of eyes lit with a sickly sinister light.

‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he returned blandly. ‘I am sorry if I have pained you—but in this world it is not the fortune of any one that his path should be all sunshine. Though it is much against my inclination, it is of your affairs that I must speak. Listen, monsieur. A little bird has already whispered abroad that Auguste de Gavrolles and Madame Forster were acquainted. Having learned so much, the curious are naturally anxious to hear more. They love romances. Here is one ready made, they say, but there is only one man who can tell it truly; and that man is Gavrolles. Accordingly Gavrolles is besieged. Well, he does not wish to speak, for though he has been maligned he is a man of honour and an artiste. He is on the horns of a dilemma. The only course for him to take would be to travel far away, but he is a poor man, and without money one can do nothing—absolutely nothing. Do you understand, monsieur?’

Forster shook his head.

‘I confess I do not.’

‘Then I must speak more plainly. Would it not be well, if you said to me, “Monsieur Gavrolles, since I am a rich man, it shall not be for the want of a little filthy lucre that my wife’s name is unpleasantly discussed. You shall not want the means to move away.”’

He paused, and for a moment there was silence. The Frenchman’s face went very pale, his smile became even more baleful, as he saw Forster rise slowly from his seat and point to the door.

‘That is enough,’ he exclaimed; ‘leave my house. If we stood face to face beneath any other roof but mine, I’d kill you like a dog.’

‘Monsieur, you do not understand.’

‘Not understand! You villain, I understand too well. I know what you have done. I know what you would do. You made my wife’s life a hell; you tortured her into her grave; and now instead of feeling any pity for your victim, you come to me and ask me to pay you money to keep you from slandering her name. Leave my house, or as sure as there is a God above us I’ll have you whipped like a cur into the street!’

Forster was trembling from head to foot with rage. The Frenchman, who was still cool, turned to speak, but one look in the other’s face silenced him. He made two steps towards the door; there he paused. He felt in his pocket, drew forth a card, wrote rapidly upon it, then turned to Forster again.

‘Monsieur,’ he said quietly, ‘that is my address for three days at least. I leave it, in case you may wish to write to me.’

So saying, and with a profound bow, he took his leave. Scarcely had the door closed upon the Frenchman when Sutherland burst excitedly into the room.

‘Mr. Forster,’ he said, ‘once more will you do me a favour for your wife’s sake?’

But Forster seemed deaf to his words. He sank into his chair, murmuring, in heart-broken tones—

‘Madeline! my poor murdered wife 1’

‘Pray, listen to me. Send the scoundrel the money—let him have his price—conditionally!’

‘You advise me to do this?’

‘I do.’

He bent down and whispered in Forster’s ear—Forster started—the two men looked at each other.

After some hesitation Forster spoke.

‘He shall have the money!’ he said.

‘And you will make those conditions?’

‘Certainly.’

Forster sat down at once, and wrote a note to Gavrolles. In it he said that he (Gavrolles) should be supplied with a certain sum, if he would pledge himself to return at once to France.