e last read The Thirty-Second Chapter, in which the philanthropist prepared for his pending nuptials. If you have recently joined us, start with The Prologue.
In the days following the widow’s imprisonment, a series of perfectly explainable, if we must be curt, occurrences drew the town into hysterics.
First, despite the fact that none were ever seen in the cemetery, a bouquet of white roses found themselves atop the Comte’s tomb and then ceased from wilting. They remained fresh as the afternoon they were plucked for many weeks, until it could only be presumed that they were cursed.
Then, a noblewoman fell from her third-story balcony and was found dead on the street. When questioned, her husband exclaimed that a bat had flown in through the bedroom window and attempted to bite her, happenstancing her great fall. Naturally, this led to conjecture that the widow had the ability to change form at night, slipping through the bars of her prison cell to frighten poor misses from their windows.
Perhaps even more spectacular, when the lamplighters were granted access to the widow’s residence, a portrait was discovered behind the peeling wallpaper of her study. Hidden beneath the white herons that wallpapered the small room, the corners slightly curling from their proximity to the hearth, appeared to be a portrait of the Veuve St. Vincent, removed of her veil of mourning, and cloaked with the veil of a bride.
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