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It was a deceptively beautiful morning in May. The sun shone brightly on Anthony’s opulent carriage as he drove to St. George’s, Hanover Square, where he was to wed Edith. Everything seemed auspicious, and Anthony felt emboldened enough to challenge fate itself. With the object of his love beside him, bound to him by the strongest and holiest ties, it seemed impossible that she could be taken from him.
The morning passed uneventfully, filling Anthony with a false sense of security. He instructed that a carriage and four be ready an hour before midnight to whisk him and his bride away to Richmond for their honeymoon.
As night fell, guests began to arrive for the grand ball. Anthony had spared no expense to ensure the evening’s splendor. It was magnificent in every respect. The festivities began with a concert performed by the finest singers from the Italian Opera. Afterwards, Anthony and his radiant bride opened the ball with a dance. As soon as the dance ended, Anthony signaled to an attendant, who promptly vanished.
“Are you ready to leave this lively scene with me, Edith?” Anthony asked, his heart swelling with rapture.
“Yes, let’s leave this chaos behind,” Edith replied, her eyes filled with tenderness. “I long to be alone with you.”
Anthony took her arm, and together they slipped out of the ball-room. Instead of taking the main staircase, they chose a more secluded route. They entered a grand hall through a side door, its spaciousness and beauty almost overwhelming. Statues stood on pedestals, watching them silently, while frescoed ceilings loomed above, supported by two majestic scagliola pillars. Between these pillars, a wide staircase of white marble ascended to the upper rooms.
The staircase was crowded with guests making their way to the ball-room, from which music and glimpses of dancing figures spilled forth. Anthony, anxious to avoid a newly-arrived party in the hall, paused with Edith near a pillar.
“Who is that?” Edith suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a tall man with a sinister expression, dressed entirely in black. He had emerged from behind the pillar and blocked their path, his back partially turned to them.
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A chill ran through Anthony. He recognized Rougemont, who now turned and fixed his malignant gaze upon him. There was no escape.
“You thought you could deceive me,” Rougemont whispered, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, audible only to Anthony. “But you underestimated your host. I have come to claim my victim.”
“Why do you tremble so, dear Anthony?” Edith asked, her voice laced with concern. “Who is this man?”
Anthony couldn’t speak; terror had stolen his voice.
“Your carriage awaits, madam,” Rougemont said, stepping forward and taking Edith’s hand. “All is prepared.”
“You are coming, Anthony?” Edith asked, uncertainty clouding her eyes.
“Yes—yes,” Anthony stammered, a desperate plan forming in his mind. “This is my friend, Mr. Rougemont—go with him.”
“Mr. Rougemont?” Edith echoed. “You told my father he wouldn’t be here.”
“Your husband did not invite me,” Rougemont said with a cold smile, “but knowing I would be welcome, I came unasked. Now, let us avoid those people.”
They moved quickly towards the door. The carriage, a dark silhouette against the night, waited with its four horses. A man-servant in traveling attire stood by the steps. The sight reassured Anthony, and he allowed Rougemont to drape a cloak over Edith’s shoulders. She climbed into the carriage, and Anthony moved to follow when a sudden blow to his chest sent him sprawling onto the pavement.
Before he could rise, Rougemont had jumped into the carriage. The servant swiftly closed the steps and mounted the box. The postillions spurred their horses, and the carriage sped away with lightning speed. As it turned the corner of King Street, Anthony, struggling to his feet, caught a glimpse of Rougemont’s face in the window, twisted into a fiendish grin of triumph.
“What has happened?” Mr. Talbot’s voice called out as he approached Anthony. “I came to bid you farewell. Why are you here alone? Where is the carriage? What has become of Edith?”
“She is in the power of the Fiend,” Anthony replied bleakly. “I have sold her to him.”
“What do you mean, wretch?” Mr. Talbot shouted in despair. “I heard that Cyprian Rougemont was here. Has he taken her?”
“You have guessed correctly,” Anthony answered. “He bought her with the money I gave you. I have sold her—and myself—to perdition.”
“Horror!” the old man gasped, collapsing to the ground.
“Yes, breathe your last!” Anthony cried wildly. “Would that I could give up my life as well!”