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V

The Prince sat drumming upon the table with his long white fingers. He had waved the Marquis and Vanringham aside. “A passing weakness,–I am not adamant,” he had said, half-peevishly.

“Then I prescribe another glass of this really excellent wine,” laughed little Louis de Soyecourt. At heart he was not merry, and his own unreasoning nervousness irritated him, for it seemed to the Marquis, quite irrationally, that the atmosphere of the cheery room was, without forerunnership, become tense and expectant, and was now quiet with much the hush which precedes the bursting of a thunder-storm. And accordingly he laughed.

“I prescribe another glass, monsieur,” said he. “Eh, that is the true panacea for faintness–for every ill. Come, we will drink to the most beautiful woman in Poictesme–nay, I am too modest,–to the most beautiful woman in France, in Europe, in the whole universe! Feriam sidera, my father! and confound all mealy-mouthed reticence, for you have both seen her. Confess, am I not a lucky man? Come, Vanringham, too, shall drink. No glasses? Take Nelchen’s, then. Come, you fortunate rascal, you shall drink to the bride from the bride’s half-emptied glass. To the most beautiful woman–Why, what the devil–?”

Vanringham had blurted out an odd, unhuman sound. His extended hand shook and jerked, as if in irresolution, and presently struck the proffered glass from de Soyecourt’s grasp. You heard the tiny crash, very audible in the stillness, and afterward the irregular drumming of the old Prince’s finger-tips. He had not raised his head, had not moved.

Louis de Soyecourt came to him, without speaking, and placed one hand under his father’s chin, and lifted the Prince’s countenance, like a dead weight, toward his own. Thus the two men regarded each the other. Their silence was rather horrible.

“It was not in vain that I dabbled with chemistry all these years,” said the guttural voice of the Prince de G�tinais, “Yes, the child is dead by this. Let us recognize the fact we are de Soyecourts, you and I.”

But Louis de Soyecourt had flung aside the passive, wrinkled face, and then, with a straining gesture, wiped the fingers that had touched it upon the sleeve of his left arm. He turned to the stairway. His hand grasped the newelpost and gripped it so firmly that he seemed less to walk than by one despairing effort to lift an inert body to the first step. He ascended slowly, with a queer shamble, and disappeared into Nelchen’s room.

VI

“What next, monseigneur?” said Vanringham, half-whispering.

“Why, next,” said the Prince de G�tinais, “I imagine that he will kill us both. Meantime, as Louis says, the wine is really excellent. So you may refill my glass, my man, and restore to me my vial of little tablets”….

He was selecting a bonbon from the comfit-dish when his son returned into the apartment. Very tenderly Louis de Soyecourt laid his burden upon a settle, and then drew the older man toward it. You noted first how the thing lacked weight: a flower snapped from its stalk could hardly have seemed more fragile. The loosened hair strained toward the floor and seemed to have sucked all color from the thing to inform that thick hair’s insolent glory; the tint of Nelchen’s lips was less sprightly, and for the splendor of her eyes Death had substituted a conscientious copy in crayons: otherwise there was no change; otherwise she seemed to lie there and muse on something remote and curious, yet quite as she would have wished it to be.

“See, my father,” Louis de Soyecourt said, “she was only a child, more little even than I. Never in her brief life had she wronged any one,–never, I believe, had she known an unkind thought. Always she laughed, you understand–Oh, my father, is it not pitiable that Nelchen will never laugh any more?”

“I entreat of God to have mercy upon her soul,” said the old Prince de G�tinais. “I entreat of God that the soul of her murderer may dwell eternally in the nethermost pit of hell.”