The Knight of Malta

“I am sure of it, if I see him again, I feel it, his presence will kill me.

“To-morrow you must leave France.

“When this poor child is confided to you, if he survives his sad infancy, Pierre, love him, oh, love him! He will never have had a mother’s love. I wish, if he is worthy of the sacred vocation, and if it suits his mind and his character, I wish him to be a priest. Some day you will tell him the terrible secret of his birth.

“He will pray for you and for me, and perhaps Heaven will hear his prayers. I feel very feeble, very feeble. Again, Pierre, I must see you. Ah, how cruelly we expiate a few days of madness!

“Once more, that which most pains me is his confidence. Oh, I tell you that the sight of him will kill me. I feel that I must die.”

The marks of the tears could still be seen upon this letter written with a feeble, fainting hand.

Pog, after having read the pages which portrayed so faithfully the agony of Emilie’s soul, gazed thoughtfully upon the lines.

He bowed his head on his breast. That man so cruelly outraged, that man hardened by hatred, could not refuse a feeling of pity for this unhappy woman.

A tear, a burning tear, the only one he had shed in years, coursed his weather-beaten cheek.

Then his resentment against the author of all these woes rose again in fury. He thanked Heaven for having at last made known to him the seducer of Emilie, but he did not now wish to concentrate his thought on the terrible vengeance that he meditated.

He continued to read.

The next letter was in the handwriting of Emilie. She informed the commander of the consequence of the last venture.

Fifth Letter.

“December 16th, nine o’clock in the morning.

“My husband knows the supposed death of the child; his despair borders on madness. His letter terrifies me with its wild and passionate grief. The quarantine ends in fifteen days. I shall not live until that time; my crime will be buried with me, and he will regret me, and he will weep my memory, perhaps. Oh, to deceive, to deceive, to deceive even to the coffin and the grave! God! will he ever forgive me? It is an abyss of terror into which I dare not cast my eyes. This evening, at eleven o’clock, Justine will open the little gate at the park. Pierre, these are solemn farewells, funereal, perhaps. To-morrow, then, to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXXV. THE MURDERER

A paper, part of which was torn, contained this written confession, in the handwriting of the commander, a few days after the bloody tragedy which he relates. The person to whom it was addressed is unknown. Some passages, tom intentionally, perhaps, seem to refer to a journey, made by the commander in Languedoc at the same period, for the purpose, no doubt, of learning the fate of his unfortunate child.

“And my hands are stained with blood. I have just committed a murder.

“I have assassinated the man against whom I have committed a deadly wrong.

“At eleven o’clock I presented myself at the little gate of the park. I was conducted into the chamber of Emilie.

“She was in bed, pale, almost dying.

“She, formerly so beautiful, seemed the ghost of herself. The hand of God had already touched her.

“I seated myself at her bedside. She extended to me her trembling, icy hand.

“I pressed it to my lips, my cold lips.

“We gave a last painful look at the past I accused myself of having destroyed her.

“We spoke of our unfortunate child. We wept, oh, how bitterly! when suddenly —

“Ah! I feel still the cold sweat deluge my brow. My hair stands on end, and a terrible voice cries to me, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’

“Oh, I will not seek to fly from remorse; till my last day I shall keep before me the image of my victim.

“By the judgment of God, which has already condemned me, I take oath to do it.

“Let me recall the scene.

“It was a terrible moment.

“The chamber of Emilie was dimly lighted by a night-lamp placed near the door.

“My back was toward this door. I was seated by her bed. She could not retain her sobs. My forehead was resting on my hand.

“The most profound silence reigned around us.

“I had just spoken to her of our child. I had just promised to fulfil her will in reference to him.

“I had tried to console her, to induce her to hope for better days, to reanimate her courage, to give her strength to conceal all from her husband; to prove to her that, for his own peace and happiness, it was better to let him remain in confident security.

“Suddenly the door behind me opened with violence.

“Emilie cried in terror: ‘My husband! I am dead!’

“Before I could turn around, an involuntary movement of her husband extinguished the lamp.

“We were all three in the dark.

“‘Do not kill me before forgiving me!’ cried Emilie.

“‘Oh – you first – him afterwards,’ said Count de Montreuil, in a hollow voice.

“The moment was horrible.

“He advanced irresolutely. I advanced also.

“I wished to meet him and hold him back.

“We said nothing. The silence was profound.

“Nothing was heard but the sound of our oppressed breathing, and the low, spasmodic voice of Emilie, who murmured: ‘Lord have pity on me! Lord have pity on me!’

“Suddenly I felt a hand as cold as marble on my forehead.

“It was the hand of her husband. In seeking her, he had touched me.

“He started, and said, without concerning himself further about me: ‘Her bed ought to be on the left!’