Vladimir
Crackovitch had taken her at her word. With the silent determination
of a great soul, he had amassed about a hundred thousand dollars in
America in less than four years, and only two or three minutes before
Vera Alexandrina's husband was due to arrive he himself stood at the
cottage door with folded arms, asking himself if he should or should
not enter and reproach Vera Alexandrina for her inconstancy.
His hesitation was suddenly overcome by the parrot. "Enter, dearest
Vladimir, and console me for my misfortune!" it cried eagerly from
within, and, not for an instant doubting that it was an invitation
from the woman whom he still loved fondly in spite of her perfidy, and
being unaware of her laryngeal affliction, he bounded into the
house and hurried from room to room until he found Vera Alexandrina
Polianowski.
But Vladimir, the sailor, had already in the meantime, from the top of
an adjacent lane, beheld Vladimir Crackovitch at the door of his home,
and, being a man of the most blindly passionate and jealous impulses,
his next procedure may be imagined.
Several hours later a neighbour called at the cottage and discovered
the three corpses in one sad heap: Vera Alexandrina Polianowski, shot
through the breast; at her side, Vladimir Crackovitch, with a bullet
in each eye; and, still clutching his revolver, Vladimir, the sailor,
seated upon his grim cushion of the dead, his back supported against
the wall under the domestic lamplit icon, with a smile of hellish
satisfaction frozen upon his lips and the remaining three bullets
buried in his heart.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45