“I spent my holidays with them. He was a great sportsman; while he was out in the woods and fields I passed my time with her.
“One day we two were startled by loud cries. I ran downstairs, and found the terrified servants gathered around the husband.
“Stretched upon a couch, he was fighting for breath with quick, short gasps, as he clutched at a wound in his abdomen.
“‘Ah, Monsieur,’ faltered the man who carried his game-bag, ‘how suddenly it happened! Monsieur had just shot a woodcock… it fell in the rushes, he ran toward the spot, and all in a moment, I don’t know how it happened, but I heard a report—a cry—and I saw Monsieur fall forward…. I brought him here.’
“I cut away the clothes and examined his injuries. The charge had plowed through his side. Blood flowed in jets from a terrible wound extending from above the hip to the thigh.
“Years of training made me regard him solely as a patient. I examined him as if it had been a hospital case. I even gave a sigh of satisfaction as I learned that his injuries were really superficial. The intestines did not appear to be involved, but on the wound’s internal surface a small artery was spurting freely.
“Hearing footsteps, I looked up, and saw Her standing in the doorway. A strange and unaccountable agony gripped my heart. It was with a great effort that I said, ‘Don’t come here…. Go away.’
“‘No,’ she said, and drew nearer.
“I could not take my eyes from hers—she had fascinated them. My finger still pressing upon the artery, the sufferer full in her view, I watched that look of hers as a man watches a dagger pointed at his throat, a wavering dagger, the gleam of which hypnotizes him.
“She drew still nearer, and a cloudy impotence fell upon my will. That look spoke things of terrible import. It seized upon my soul, that look; it spoke—no need of words to make me understand what it asked of me. It said:
“‘You can have me for your own…. You can take me and keep me…. I shall thrill to no other joy, faint under no other fondness… if only you will—’
“Once more I faltered: ‘You must not stay here…. Go away.’
“But the look spoke again:
“‘Soul without resolution… heart that dares not… what have you always longed for?… Look!… Chance changes your dream to reality.’
“The artery pulsed under my finger and, little by little, strive as I would to maintain it, the pressure diminished.
“She was close to me. She bent above me. Her breath played in my hair; the emanation from her body stole into every fiber of my being, impregnated my hands, my lips—that exhalation was madness to me.
“All conception of time, of danger, of duty, fled from my mind.
“Suddenly the door opened, and a servant appeared with my surgical case. The stupor was dispelled.
“‘Quick! Give it to me!’ I shouted rather than called.
“But then… I saw that my finger had deserted its post… that there was now no pulsation under it… that the stricken man’s lip was drawn upward into the mocking semblance of a smile… and… that it was all over.
“Our eyes met. And in that moment a shadow fell between us, a shadow with a mocking smile—the shadow of the dead man….
“I thought at first that this nightmare would fade away. I strove to assure myself that the fatal issue was an accident, unavoidable. But since she became my wife, that shadow is between us, always, everywhere. Neither speaks of it, but it comes between our meeting eyes.
“I—I see once more her eyes, the look, saying, ‘Take me. Let us be free.’ She—she sees once more my hand, as, by slow degrees, it lets the life of her husband ebb away. And hatred has come, a silent hatred, the hatred of two murderers who are in the bonds of a mutual fear.
“We remain for hours as you have seen us tonight. Words rush up within us, smite asunder the clenched teeth, half open the lips—and we keep silence.”
He took a dagger from the table, tried the edge with his finger.
“Cowards… both of us!”
He flung the weapon, clanging, to the table, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears.
The Horror on the Night Express
THE TRAIN hurtled through the black night toward the Swiss frontier. My three companions in the compartment, an elderly gentleman and a young couple, were not asleep. From time to time, the young woman, almost a girl, spoke a few words to the young man, who answered with a nod or a gesture. Then all would be silent again.
I suppose it is impossible for a man to get away from his profession. I was going to Switzerland on a much-needed vacation. Aside from my private practice as a physician, my services had been called for several times during the preceding months as medical expert for the Paris Police. Upon concluding my work on the last case, some hours before, I had thrown a few belongings into a bag and started off. Yet I found myself speculating as to the identities, background, and professions of those forced into almost intimate contact with me for the duration of the voyage, due to the division of a railroad car into compartments prevailing on European lines.
I dismissed the elderly gentleman very soon as an ordinary type; the sort of well-to-do old chap, retired from active business, that one might expect to find traveling for his pleasure in a first-class compartment. The girl was pretty, sweet, but obviously without individuality, for the present at least, for she was engrossed in her husband. I assumed that they were on a wedding trip.
The young man held my attention longer. He was a handsome fellow, perhaps thirty years old, solid yet dapper, with a fine, energetic face, soft eyes and an expression of gentleness that increased when he glanced at his beautiful companion. Thus far, beyond the banal words of politeness when adjusting baggage or shifting positions on the seats, there had been no conversation.
It was about two o’clock; the train passed by a small station without slowing. The lights flickered swiftly, darted through the windows, as our car jostled over turning plates. This jarring, this noise, aroused the girl, who had been drowsing. At her slight movement, the young man smiled, wiped the plate glass with the fingers of his gloved hand, leaned to peer out. But the station clock, the lamps, the name of the depot had flashed out of sight.
“Where are we, Jacques?” the young woman asked in a weary voice.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Pontarlier is the next stop.”
“We’re not there yet,” the old gentleman said. He had been waiting for a chance to talk, to while away the minutes, and took the slight opportunity:
“We have not passed through the tunnel yet.”
“This trip is endless,” the girl sighed. “I can’t sleep. If only you had thought of buying papers or magazines—”
“Allow me?” the old gentleman said eagerly, holding out several newspapers.
She accepted with a grateful smile. Her husband drew a blanket over her knees, adjusted the lamp so that the light would be easier on her eyes. She opened one of the papers and soon was absorbed in what she was reading. The young man drew a cigarette case, which he snapped open and held out to his neighbor: “A cigarette, Monsieur?”
“With pleasure—”
“Really, I’m much obliged to you, sir. This trip is long and hard, especially for my wife who is not used to traveling at night.”
“Especially as day breaks so late at this season,” the old gentleman replied courteously. “So late it will be dark when we reach Vallorbe, where we must go through the customs. I take it you’re going to Italy?”
“My wife is not well, and the doctors have advised mountain air, so we’re going to Switzerland. However, if it is too cold up there, we shall go down to the lakes. She needs care, rest, and as for myself I’ve been so occupied in the past few weeks that I need a vacation.”