“My dear signora, to be candid with you, I must say, judging from the severity of the fracture on the skull, she never will. She may linger a day or two; but I scarcely think she will survive that length of time; the poor woman has killed herself.”
This announcement, delivered with the habitual coolness of gentlemen of that profession, was a thunder-bolt to me.
“Going to die, do you say? Oh, heavens! how dreadful.”
After leaving a potion to be taken at a certain hour, the physician went away, promising to call at day-break, and we were left with the sufferer alone. Monsieur de Serval had been informed of the sad event. Pasiphae said he made no remark, but strode past her to his room, and locked himself in. Probably if he felt any sentiment at all, it was one of joy at the prospect of release from his illicit tie. Oh! how selfish are men where their pride or vanity is touched, or their vices exposed.
All night I watched beside her. She remained in a state of stupor, manifesting no life, save by a feeble groan now and then, and sometimes opening those great eyes, and then relapsing into lethargy.
The physician was punctual to his promise, and the gray dawn had scarce been born ere he came. He administered something which momentarily revived her, and in the course of the day she spoke. Oh! strange problem,—spoke sanely! with that singular precision we frequently see in the insane restored to mind. Her memory reverted and dated from the fatal moment when the blow was given which shattered that fair temple of reason.
I had not seen Rinaldo since the hour of ten, the night before, and as he was acquainted with the sad disaster, I wondered at his indifference to what the physician too prophetically foresaw—her death-bed. Alas! thought I, as I leaned over her and watched the slow dawning of mental consciousness, and the confused look and air of intense agony her face showed,—alas! it seems to be my fate to be connected with the worthless and unhappy. My husband, whom I thought so perfect—so repentant of former follies and determined to amend in future—has sadly disappointed me. The world I imagined so beautiful an Elysium, I find the abode of fair deceit, and corrupt and rotten at the core. Oh, life! where are thy pleasures unmingled with the alloy of pain? or is it thus in everything? No sooner do we possess it, than we discover it to be like those lovely apples of the shores of the Red Sea, very fair to look upon; but, when tasted, bitter as wormwood—rotten as dust.
Pasiphae disturbed the sad tenor of my thoughts, by directing my attention to the door, at which stood Monsieur de Serval. Thinking his presence the indication of a better mood,—of a feeling of compassion toward his unhappy mistress,—I sprang toward him, and, forgetting our quarrel, caught his hand in mine. He looked melancholy; and I thought I could trace remorse on those delicate features.
“Oh, Rinaldo!” I cried, “you see what has happened. Last night, while the nurse was absent from the room, she left the apartment, and not seeing the great staircase, stepped off it and fractured her skull. The physician says she cannot survive. How terrible it is—is it not—to see one die who has led such a life? Come close to her; she is regaining her senses—her right mind.”