The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night. Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere than ever.
He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps by design, she allowed to be seen, “What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.
“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling with that painful expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile. “Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that rope.”
Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or weapons.
He started, and the prisoner saw that start—for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her.
“What were you doing on that armchair?” asked he.
“Of what consequence?” replied Milady.
“But,” replied Felton, “I wish to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know that we who are true Christians are forbidden to lie.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide.”