“No, no!” she muttered. “I’ll die sooner than she shall touch him again.”
Then she held her breath, listening, for she fancied she heard a sound in the studio above the beating on the panel, which suddenly culminated in one strangely given blow, accompanied by a wild shriek of agony, followed by a heavy fall and a piteous groan.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Husband and Wife.
Startled beyond bearing by the sounds of mortal suffering, Cornel unfastened the door, drew it toward her, and then stopped, utterly paralysed by the scene in the studio.
There, not a yard away from the door, lay the beautiful woman, her face drawn in agony and horror, with the blood welling from a wound in her throat: her bonnet was back on her shoulders, and her hair torn down, as if a hand had suddenly been savagely laid upon her brow, her head dragged back, and a blow struck at her from behind; while standing upon the other side, with his compressed lips drawn away from his set teeth, eyes nearly closed, and brow contracted, was the Conte, looking down at his work.
For a few moments Cornel could not stir. The studio, with its many casts, seemed to perform a ghastly dance round her, and she felt as if this were some horrible nightmare. Then the deathly sickness passed off, and she cried wildly to the Conte, who did not even seem aware of her presence—
“O Heaven! What have you done?”