He glared back on her: what did this mean? Their eyes were fixed on each other like combatants for life and death; they did not see that the room was filling with people, that the doctor was only on the other side of the table, and that the baroness and Edouard were at the door, and all looking wonderstruck at this strange sight—Josephine on her knees, and those two facing each other, white, with dilating eyes, the glass between them.
But what was that to the horror, when the next moment the patient Josephine started to her feet, and, standing in the midst, tore her hair by handfuls, out of her head.
“Ah, you snatch the kind poison from me!”
“Poison!”
“Poison!”
“Poison!” cried the others, horror-stricken.
“Ah! you won’t let me die. Curse you all! curse you! I never had my own way in anything. I was always a slave and a fool. I have murdered the man I love—I love. Yes, my husband, do you hear? the man I love.”
“Hush! daughter, respect my gray hairs.”
“Your gray hairs! You are not so old in years as I am in agony. So this is your love, Rose! Ah, you won’t let me die—won’t you? THEN I’LL DO WORSE—I’LL TELL.”
“He who is dead; you have murdered him amongst you, and I’ll follow him in spite of you all—he was my betrothed. He struggled wounded, bleeding, to my feet. He found me married. News came of my husband’s death; I married my betrothed.”