At the sound of his loud vindictive voice she relapsed her hold, staggered back, and mournfully gazing on his enraged face, shivered, turned, if possible, more pale,—then fell flat on the floor!
“Oh, miserable man!” I exclaimed, as the nurse raised the death-stricken, inanimate form, and laid it on the bed, while the doctor darted looks of contempt at him. “Oh, apology for humanity! and have you no pity for the unhappy sufferer from your vices?”
“Why did you summon me here, madam, to witness this mummery? We all must die some day, it matters not how. Do I wish to behold the death-bed of a lunatic? Can I assist her final departure? Why have you called me?—to anger me, I suppose.”
“Well, monsieur, if you think it too great a condescension to see her die, go; leave the room,—I will attend the poor dying creature.”
Without replying, save by a look of scorn and anger, he departed. I could easily understand that he felt doubly angered when he reflected (as he must have done) that my discovery of his illicit connexion necessarily would weaken, if not wholly obliterate, my love for him. It was this that inspired his rage, and made him hate the unfortunate object of it. His love for me was still unabated;—not so mine. A bar of ice seemed placed between us. In this respect women and men differ greatly, for though a man may indulge himself in many loves, yet he generally returns to the lawful one. On the contrary, when a woman’s affections are once thoroughly alienated, they seldom return to the first object of attachment.
I cannot think of that woman’s death-bed without bitter regret, nor write this portion of my memoir without dropping tears upon the page. Recovering from the stupor into which she had fallen when he repulsed her,—her eyes roved anxiously round in search of him. Not seeing him, she closed them again, and remained motionless. An hour passed by: finding she did not stir, I felt her hands and feet,—they were growing colder and colder, and her eyes more dim. She was an hour nearer death.
“She will be dead before twilight, lady,” said the physician, having felt her pulse. “Poor thing! her death is very painful; she has suffered much.”
“Yes, I have suffered much,” was her audible reply, to our astonishment, and she uplifted her eyes and joined her hands as if praying. I remembered Monsieur de Serval’s description of his mother’s death-bed, and wondered how he could treat thus the last moments of his neglected mistress. So easy is it to express fine sentiments which one does not feel, and never practise! Fine words cost nothing, and may be equally well said by a bad as a noble soul; but fine actions must result from a good heart.
Gradually twilight drew near, and she was sinking momently. Raised on my breast, I held one hand in mine;—she seemed laboring to say something. I stooped to the level of her ear, and tried to catch the sound. Her voice was low, faint, and broken.
“Dear lady,” at last I thought I heard her say; “I thank you for your kindness, whoever you may be, and—,” she paused, as if to reflect, “tell him I forgive him the injury he has done me.”