Then, starting up, she bent over him, laid her hand upon his brow, her cheek against his lips, and staggered back.
“Dead!” she cried, “dead!”
For his eyes were closed, and the bandaged cut upon his brow gave him a ghastly look, seen as he was by the shaded light of a lamp upon the table by the bed’s head.
She rushed back through the little room to the studio, where Cornel stood, wild-eyed, and white as the figure upon the bed.
“Wretch! you have killed him in your insane jealousy. It could not have been that blow. Tell me! confess!” she cried, seizing her by the arms.
“Better so than that he should have fallen back into your power,” said Cornel bitterly.
“Ah! You own it, then? Oh, it is too horrible!”
Her face convulsed with agony, the Contessa seized Cornel by the arm, threw down the bag, which flew open, so that the jewels scattered on the floor, and tried to drag her toward the studio door, calling hoarsely for help. But her voice rose to the ceiling, and not a sound was heard below.
But Cornel resisted now with all her might, and in the struggle which ensued wrested herself away, ran across the studio, darted through the door of the little room, dashed it to, and had time to slip the bolt before her rival flung herself against it, and then beat heavily against the panel with her hand.
Pale as ashes, and panting with excitement, Cornel stood with her left shoulder pressed against the panel, feeling the blows struck upon it through the wood, as, with her eyes fixed and strained, she felt about for the key, her hand trembling so that she could hardly turn it in the lock.