DEATH
Amélie sprang back, preparing for the struggle which the strength of the bridegroom would have rendered futile. The enameled clock rang out the hour of seven. The mythologically wrought panel opened again and a man entered.
Jean loosed his hold and stood petrified. The man advanced and asked in a terrible voice:
"What does this mean? What is going on in my house?"
"René!" cried Amélie, running to her lover who clasped her in his arms, regardless of the fire in Jean's eyes.
"Jean Vilon," said the master, "render an account of yourself. What has taken place in this castle? Unfaithful servant, how have you guarded this trust?"
Vilon trembled and knelt before René.
"Your lordship," he stammered, "your mother—the orders she brought me—from you."
"Orders? Were they not to refuse entrance to anyone not giving the watch-word? Did my mother speak it, imbecile? Do I call you imbecile? I mean scoundrel. How have you treated this woman,—this woman who should be as holy to you as the Virgin?"
"Your lordship, it was the Duchess, the wife of my late master whose ashes rest in the chapel"—incoherently articulated Vilon. "Should I refuse her?—close the door in her face?"