“My remorse,” he said, “is due to the fact that I have caused the death of Count Mont d’Oro. Do you remember the flower you gave me the morning that we first met? Here it is. I have it with me always.” and he held up the white rose with blood-stained petals. “I had sworn by this little flower never to injure any whom you loved, even to save my own life. And now, God forgive me! I have killed one dearer to you than a brother. I dare not ask your pardon for the rash act—I can only plead with Heaven to soften your heart towards me.”
“I do not understand you,” said Vivienne. “The Count dearer to me than a brother? Did I not tell you——”
Victor persisted:
“How can I hope for pardon from you, his betrothed wife!” He looked at the flower: “On each tiny petal I read a lesson—peace and love. I have proved recreant to my vow, sweet emblem. I am unworthy of a gift so pure. Die, then, with the fondest hopes my heart ever cherished. I crush both beneath my feet!”
He threw the flower upon the floor and raised his foot——
“No, you shall not!” cried Vivienne. “Do not destroy it!” As she spoke, she knelt and picked up the flower. “There is a magic charm hidden within its petals. The assassin’s steel could not pierce the breast upon which it reposed. Would you, then, throw away so powerful a talisman?”
“Assassin? You do not mean——”
“Yes, Count Mont d’Oro was no better than an assassin. Three times he sought your life, not because you had injured him, but because you stood in his path.”
“Then you did not love him?”
“I hated—I abhorred him! I honour the hand that struck him down.” She took Victor’s right hand in hers: “This is the hand, and to its keeping I intrust, once more, this little, faded flower. Keep it as a memento of me, and when you are far away, look at it sometimes and remember that you left one true friend in Corsica.”