CHAPTER XCVI. GONE!

STEADILY, sternly, William Trefalden went
down the broad stone stairs and into the hall.
Here the housekeeper, coming from the empty
dining-room and wondering what great trouble
was in the house, started at the sight of him, as
if he were a ghost. He passed her as he would
have passed a tree by the roadside, took his hat
mechanically, and went out. At the gates he
paused. The key was on the inside; but he
fumbled with it confusedly, and could not turn the
lock. The housekeeper, looking after him with a
sort of vague terror, called to Jacques to open the
gates for monsieur; whereupon Jacques, clattering
across the yard in his sabots, came running,
lantern in hand, and turned the key in an instant.

Monsieur passed out into the lane like a man
in a dream, and having gone a few steps, stood
still and leaned against the wall. The wind blew
fiercely, bringing heavy drops of rain with it every
now and again; but of this he seemed
unconscious. Then he went slowly down the lane and
out upon the high road. To the right lay
Bordeaux, a good ten miles away; to the left, bordering
the road for some little distance on either
side, but lying for the most part somewhat back
among the vineyards, came the village. He
stopped, walked a few yards in this direction, a
few yards in that, and then stopped again, feeling
faint and stunned, and all unlike himself.

It was a case of reaction, mental and physical.
He had gone through a terrific ordeal, and it had
now begun to tell upon him, body and brain.
Dimly conscious of this, he tried to collect his
thoughts—tried to consider what it was that
he wanted to do, and which way he should go
next. Then he suddenly remembered that he
had been travelling since noon, and had not
dined that day. He would go to the auberge in
the village, and there get some food and some
brandy — above all, some brandy. It would put
life into him; steady him; lift this weight from
his brain, and restore him to himself.

Acting upon this instinct, he made his way to
the Lion d'Or. Two old peasants, chatting over
their half bottle of thin red wine in a corner of
the public room, looked up as he came in; and
the master of the house, recognising the English
monsieur, who was to occupy his best
bedchamber that night, left his game of dominoes
and rose respectfully. Did monsieur desire to
see his room? The room was quite ready, and
he thought monsieur would be content with it.
Could monsieur have refreshment? Without
doubt. Monsieur could have whatever refreshment
he pleased—a cutlet, an omelette, a dish of
ham, a fowl even, if monsieur did not object to
wait while it was cooked. Good; a cutlet — a
cutlet and some cognac. He had excellent cognac;
vieux cognac, if monsieur indeed preferred it to
wine. Monsieur should be served immediately.
The cutlet would not take five minutes to prepare.
In the mean while, would monsieur be pleased to
occupy this small table by the window.

William Trefalden dropped into the chair
placed for him by the landlord, and there sat in
a kind of stupor—his hat on, his elbows resting
on the table, his chin supported on his hands.
His hair and clothes were damp; his feet were
deadly cold; his teeth chattered: but of all this
he was wholly unconscious. He only knew that
he felt crushed and paralysed, that he wanted to
think of something and had no power to do so,
that the brandy would put him straight—the
brandy! the brandy

He called for it impatiently, and while the
landlord went to fetch it, fell to wondering again what
the thing was that he failed so strangely to
remember. It tormented him. It haunted him.
He seemed ever on the point of seizing it, and,
failing to seize it, groped about in a kind of
mental darkness that was inexpressibly painful.

Then the brandy came—about a quarter of a
pint in a tiny decanter, accompanied by a liqueur
glass equally diminutive. He pushed the glass
angrily aside, poured the whole of the spirit into
a tumbler, and drank it at a draught. It went
down his throat like fire; but he had no sooner
swallowed it than the pressure on his brain was
relieved. After a few moments he felt warmer,
steadier. Then his thoughts cleared suddenly.
He remembered all that had happened; and with
memory came back the whole flood of rage, grief,
hatred, love, despair!

He knew now what the thought was — that
vague thought which had so oppressed and eluded
him a few moments since. It was vengeance.

Ay, vengeance. Bitter, deadly, terrible
vengeance—vengeance swift and bloody! He told
himself that he would have it, be the cost what it
might. He would give his own life for it
willingly, and count it cheaply purchased. The
word mounted to his brain, throbbed in his pulse,
tingled in his ears, mastered and took possession
of him, like a fiend.

He knew that he must plan his vengeance
quickly. It must be planned, prepared, executed
at once. The blow must fall as suddenly and
fatally as the shaft of the lightning. How was
this to be done? With what weapon?

The landlord came bustling in with a pile of
covered plates in his hands and a napkin under
his arm. Monsieur's dinner. Monsieur would
find that the cook had done her best at so short
a notice. Here was a little soup; here also were
cutlets, fried potatoes, and a dish of beans. The
omelette would be ready for monsieur as soon as
monsieur was ready for the omelette.

But William Trefalden was in no state to do
justice to the fare before him. He tasted the
soup, and pushed it aside. He tried to taste the
meat, but set the morsel down without putting it
to his lips. The brandy had supplied him with a
factitious strength, and he now loathed the sight
and smell of solid food. One thing he took,
however, from the dinner-table—a knife.

He watched his moment, and slipped it up his
sleeve when no one was observing him. It was
a short black-handled knife, worn to an edge on