Dr. Procida told Madeline Villefort, his head nurse, to give the medicine to Vivienne. “I am going away for the day,” he continued, “as I have to see a patient in Ajaccio. I shall not be back until late this afternoon.”
The nurse went to Vivienne’s room. The young girl was strangely calm.
“The doctor has been called away for the day,” said Madeline, “and left you in my charge. Where is the medicine?”
Vivienne pointed to the floor.
“You are a rash girl,” said the nurse. “When I tell the doctor what you have done, he will put you in a strait-jacket or tie you to your bed.”
Vivienne did not notice the woman’s words; in fact, she appeared unconscious of her presence, and seemed lost in thought. Finally, she said in an undertone:
“What a terrible thing is the vendetta!”
“Terrible,” cried Madeline, who had overheard her, “I think it is glorious.” She drew a stiletto from the bosom of her dress. “Do you see that? I mean it for the woman who stole my husband. Villefort was a fool—I can forgive that—most men are. But she hated me and I hate her. I will kill her if we ever meet.”
Vivienne appeared interested. The woman held up the stiletto, looking at the glistening blade and sharp point. Vivienne arose from her chair, walked slowly to the barred window, and looked out. The nurse was too busy with thoughts of prospective vengeance to notice her movements. Vivienne retraced her steps, noiselessly, until she stood behind the chair where Madeline sat. Reaching over suddenly, she grasped the hilt of the stiletto and, with the strength of desperation, tore it from the woman’s hand.
“Do not move!” cried Vivienne. “I am going to leave this room and this house.” Madeline attempted to rise from her chair. “If you move, I will kill you,” cried Vivienne. “His life is everything to me—yours is as nothing.”