Jean's mouth contracted. He suffered terribly, but he did not yield. He kept assuring himself that Amélie was his, his treasure. Only death could separate them.
René clutched the Breton's wrist and pressed it till the bones almost cracked.
"I repeat, Jean, you are the undoing of my life. But you shall not save your soul, if you persist, for a dreadful crime would follow. You refuse to give her up? Well, let me tell you who the woman is that you continue to call your wife. She is sacred, poor fool, and as inaccessible to you as the saints. Listen, dust of the earth. She is of the race of kings—do you hear?—you must never forget this fact—of our kings!"
Terror and wonder contorted the peasant's face. He transfixed Amélie with a look of superstitious, reverence. The revelation exceeded his power of comprehension.
"The blood of the king martyred by the revolutionists is in her body,—the king for whom your father bore arms and fought hand to hand so often,—the king for whom he lay concealed in the woods and for whom,—do you remember, Jean?—he was shot, his body lying unburied during seven days. If your father should now awake he would behold his son attempting to profane the daughter of that king! This is the crime to which you have lent yourself."
"Is this true?" asked Jean, turning upon Amélie a face contorted with fear and pain.
"Yes, Jean," she answered, her voice full of compassion. "I swear by my soul it is true."
"And the honor of Brezé confirms the oath," added René. "Retain the fruit of your iniquity. I leave you your wife. You no longer have a master. I shall go away forever."
"No," entreated Jean. "Rather I, rather I."
He crossed himself and grasped the amulets which hung around his neck. Then, swiftly approaching Amélie, he kissed her on the forehead. His lips burned and she shrieked in horror. He walked rapidly out of the boudoir. His heavy feet sounded for a moment in the antechamber, then on the stairway, the narrow winding stairway leading to the tower's highest story. René and Amélie listened. Suddenly divining his intention, they ran after him. The tiny room was dark when they reached it, the window was curtained by a heavy obstruction which they realized was Jean. They darted to clutch him, but he rolled out before their eyes. Deeply affected, they looked down and beheld at the base of the tower the lifeless body of the grief-crazed Breton, with face upturned to the sky and glassy eyes gleaming amid the heavy blond hair. Silvano, the faithful mastiff, sat beside him, howling despairingly.