“Come nearer,” said he, “I have not strength enough to speak loud.”
She obeyed mechanically. When she saw the large red stain which had soaked Christian’s right sleeve, she closed her eyes, threw back her head, and her features contracted with a horrified expression.
“You women are wonderfully fastidious,” said the Baron, as he noticed this movement; “you delight in causing a murder, but the slightest scratch frightens you. Pass over to the left side; you will not see so much blood-besides, it is the side where the heart is.”
There was something terrible in the irony of the voice in which he spoke at this moment. Clemence fell upon her knees beside him and took his hand, crying,
“Pardon! pardon!”
The dying man took away his hand, raised his wife’s head, and, looking at her a few moments attentively, he said at last:
“Your eyes are very dry. No tears! What! not one tear when you see me thus!”
“I can not weep,” replied she; “I shall die!”
“It is very humiliating for me to be so poorly regretted, and it does you little honor—try to shed a few tears, Madame—it will be remarked—a widow who does not weep!”
“A widow—never!” she said, with energy.