“Because I have a right,” cried Valentina, who, stung now by her rival’s words, began to recover herself. Her eyes too dilated as she went on, and something of her old hauteur and contempt flashed out.
“You!—a right?”
“Yes; the right of the woman he loves—who has given up everything for his sake.”
“Loves! The woman he loves!” cried Cornel contemptuously.
“Yes, and who loves him as such a woman as I can love. Do you think that you, in your girlish coldness, could ever have won him as I have? Tell me where he is.”
“That you may join him?” cried Cornel. “You would give him over to your husband—to that horror—and his death.”
“Ah!” cried Valentina excitedly; “then he has not gone yet. He is safe.” And, in spite of herself, she gave way to a hysterical burst of tears.
“What is it to you?” said Cornel coldly. “He has escaped from your hands. You have no right here, woman. Go.”
“I am right, then,” cried the Contessa, mastering her weakness once more. “You are trying to keep us apart. He is mine, I tell you, mine for ever. He is there, then; I am not too late—there in that room. Armstrong!” she cried loudly, “come to me. I am here.”
She made for the door again, but Cornel seized her, and strove with all her might to keep the furious woman back, but she was like a child in her hands, and was rudely flung aside. Valentina thrust open the door, entered the study, and passed through it to the chamber beyond, to utter a wild cry, and fall upon her knees beside the bed on which Armstrong lay cold and still.