The abbé, astonished at this event, hastily perused the letter.
"Sire," wrote the young lady, "I am apprised that it is by my dishonour the life of the Vicomte de Benavent can be saved. I prefer saving his life by the sacrifice of my own. If you do not wish to be answerable for my fate before an Almighty judge, do not punish a lover whom you have rendered sufficiently miserable already by my untimely death. I shall have ceased to live when this letter meets your eyes."
"But go, Monsieur," the King exclaimed again. "These priests are effective only in the pulpit; they can advise well, but cannot act with energy."
The horror of that note imparted speed to the abbé; he ran to the Parc-aux-Cerfs, preceded by the Marquis de Pontecoulant, who was sent specially by the King. The mansion was in an indescribable state, its inmates filled with consternation at the desperate course adopted by the hapless Helene. Several physicians were present, and various antidotes had been tried, but without any satisfactory results. At sight of the abbé, the bedside was left free for his approach.
"Oh! my niece," said the priest, in a voice almost choked with grief, "how could you presume to dispose of your life?"
"I preferred death to infamy."
"My niece, your honor is respected, and the King concedes your requests. The Vicomte de Benavent and his comrades are at liberty."
"Then I go to my grave consoled and contented."
"Dearest Helene! live to make a husband happy; live to impart joy to your family."
"It is too late."