“He is dead,” said Amélie.
The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words to which Amélie had replied too low even to hear them himself. His eyes went back to the letter.
There was no legal marriage possible between the sister
of Roland de Montrevel and the leader of the Companions
of Jehu: that was the terrible secret which I bore—and
it crushed me.
One person alone had to know it, and I told him; that
person was Sir John Tanlay.
May God forever bless that noble-hearted man, who
promised to break off an impossible marriage, and who
kept his word. Let his life be sacred to you, Roland; he
has been my only friend in sorrow, and his tears have
mingled with mine.
I loved Charles de Saint-Hermine; I was his mistress;
that is the terrible thing you must forgive.
But, in exchange, you caused his death; that is the
terrible thing I now forgive you.
Oh! come fast, Roland, for I cannot die till you are
here.
To die is to see him again; to die is to be with him and
never to leave him again. I am glad to die.
All was clearly and plainly written; there was no sign of delirium in the letter.
Roland read it through twice, and stood for an instant silent, motionless, palpitating, full of bitterness; then pity got the better of his anger. He went to Amélie, stretched his hand over her, and said: “Sister, I forgive you.”
A slight quiver shook the dying body.
“And now,” she said, “call my mother, that I may die in her arms.”
Roland opened the door and called Madame de Montrevel. She was waiting and came at once.
“Is there any change?” she asked, eagerly.
“No,” replied Roland, “only Amélie wishes to die in your arms.”