really he death-rattle. He sent the servant off into the country with a
letter to one of his friends, telling her not to return until the Monday
following, February 3rd. He also sent away his wife, on some unknown
pretext, and remained alone with his victim.

So terrible a situation ought to have troubled the mind of the most
hardened criminal. A man familiar with murder and accustomed to shed
blood might have felt his heart sink, and, in the absence of pity, might
have experienced disgust at the sight of this prolonged and useless
torture; but Derues, calm and easy, as if unconscious of evil, sat coolly
beside the bed, as any doctor might have done. From time to time he felt
the slackening pulse, and looked at the glassy and sightless eyes which
turned in their orbits, and he saw without terror the approach of night,
which rendered this awful 'tete-a-tete' even more horrible. The most
profound silence reigned in the house, the street was deserted, and the
only sound heard was caused by an icy rain mixed with snow driven against
the glass, and occasionally the howl of the wind, which penetrated the
chimney and scattered the ashes. A single candle placed behind the
curtains lighted this dismal scene, and the irregular flicker of its
flame cast weird reflections and dancing shadows an the walls of the
alcove. There came a lull in the wind, the rain ceased, and during this
instant of calm someone knocked, at first gently, and then sharply, at
the outer door. Derues dropped the dying woman's hand and bent forward
to listen. The knock was repeated, and he grew pale. He threw the
sheet, as if it were a shroud, over his victim's head drew the curtains
of the alcove, and went to the door. "Who is there?" he inquired.

"Open, Monsieur Derues," said a voice which he recognised as that of a
woman of Chartres whose affairs he managed, and who had entrusted him
with sundry deeds in order that he might receive the money due to her.