“Oh!” murmured Charny, with a groan, and seemed ready to faint.
This cry pierced the queen’s heart; she thought he was about to die, and was going to call for assistance; but, after an instant’s reflection, she went on: “Let us converse quietly, and be a man. Doctor Louis has vainly tried to cure you; your wound, which was nothing, has been rendered dangerous through your own extravagances. When will you cease to present to the good doctor the spectacle of a scandalous folly which disquiets him? When will you leave the castle?”
“Madame,” replied Charny, “your majesty sends me away; I go, I go!” And he rose with a violent effort, as though he would have fled that instant, but, unable to stand, fell almost into the arms of the queen, who had risen to stop him.
She replaced him on the sofa; a bloody foam rose to his lips. “Ah, so much the better!” cried he; “I die, killed by you!” The queen forgot everything but his danger; she supported his drooping head on her shoulders, and pressed her cold hands to his forehead and heart. Her touch seemed to revive him as if by magic—he lived again; then she wished to fly, but he caught hold of her dress, saying:
“Madame, in the name of the respect which I feel for you——”
“Adieu, adieu!” cried the queen.
“Oh, madame, pardon me!”
“I do pardon you.”
“Madame, one last look.”
“M. de Charny,” said the queen, trembling, “if you are not the basest of men, to-morrow you will be dead, or have left this castle.”