“What can have happened?” Catherine asked herself, as she crept to the window and looked out. The heavens away in the east were violet and rose tinted; while Aurora, beautiful as a dream, was ascending the sky. “He is dead,” said a voice under the window. “Dead, dead!” repeated Catherine, her eyes dilating with horror. “Merciful heavens! Not dead?” She vaguely comprehended that they were speaking of her husband. A low murmur of voices arose from the spot where the gamekeeper lay; but the peasants, superstitiously awed, dared not touch the body, and all were speaking in suppressed tones. More than one whispered to his neighbor that Madame Catherine might be able to name the murderer. “She is a D’Angerolles, you know,” added another, significantly. Every moment some new-comer joined the crowd which surrounded poor Savin’s body. “Come, let us go inside,” at last suggested one of the men. But upon trying the door he found it locked, and knocked loudly. Endeavoring to compose herself, Catherine hastily arranged her dress, and crossed the room toward the staircase. In passing before the mirror that surmounted the mantelpiece she involuntarily looked in the glass. By the dim gray light a shadow seemed to rest upon her face. “My God! what is it?” she cried in terror. Lighting a candle, she gazed once more into the little glass. In the glimmering, flickering light she saw upon her livid cheek the traces of a bloody hand. Savin’s five fingers, which had been covered with blood from his wound, when he struck his wife, had left their imprint on her face. In a moment more she would have faced the throng with those marks upon her face--by which her husband had branded her as a criminal. “Look! Madame Catherine has struck a light. She must be coming down,” said Mathieu. “Hadn’t we better break it to her gently?” suggested somebody. “Bah!” replied a woman. “She probably knew all about it before we did.” Meantime Catherine washed away the stains as well as she could, but it seemed to her as though some of them never could be effaced. Down below all wondered why she was so long in coming. At length, after washing her face several times, she descended the stairs. When she appeared on the threshold, her countenance, mobile and composed, was scrutinized by all, and suspiciously by many. On the doorstep, just as he had fallen, lay poor Savin. Catherine saw him, and a desolate cry escaped her. Falling on her knees she drew his head upon her lap, and with a passionate moan, more of remorse than of despair, she stroked his cold face. But to the spectators present it seemed but a bit of clever acting, and they manifested signs of distrust of her. “She is playing a _rôle_,” cried Mathieu, sneeringly, but he was in error. For as she now looked upon his pale dead face, so drawn and still, all hatred of her husband disappeared, and her being was scourged by the thought that he had met his death because of her.