“Here, Floria,” he said, “the passport. I have fulfilled my promise.”
“Not entirely,” came the voice behind him. “I must have a safe conduct enabling me, too, to quit the country. For I go with him.”
“After tonight?” De Medici murmured, “you will leave me?”
The voice behind him answered:
“Yes, forever.”
Dr. Lytton was watching narrowly. He saw the metamorphosed housekeeper stealthily approaching the apparently unconscious De Medici. With infinite caution her fingers reached for the knife on the table edge. She held it behind her as De Medici raised a wineglass in his hand.
“Ah, my lovely one, my beautiful Tosca, at last thou art mine.”
As he spoke the woman appeared to become transfigured. The terror of her eyes gave way to an exultant light. She stood poised for a moment, gazing at the man straightening with the wineglass in his hand. Then with a cry she raised the knife and plunged it toward De Medici.
He had been waiting, his body tensed for the moment. His hand caught the descending arm and frustrated the attack. But immediately he sank to the floor, crying hoarsely:
“Help me, help me, I am dying.”