“No, no; live!” he cried.
“To save you from the punishment you merit?” she whispered scornfully.
“No, no! to be my dearest love and wife again. Let us go back to sunny Italy, away from all this miserable city.”
“Too late!” she said sadly. “You should have said that years ago.”
“For pity’s sake don’t speak,” whispered Cornel.
“Why not, little doctor?” said Valentina softly. “Better so. Ah, I was not all bad, dear. I loved him before I knew of you. How could I help looking on you with jealous hate? Let me kiss you once—before I go. Be loving to him and forgive him—it was all my fault—tell me you will forgive him—when I am gone.”
“With all my heart,” said Cornel softly; and she bent down to press her lips to those of the suffering woman, while the tears over-ran her brimming eyelids, and her heart swelled with pity for one so deeply punished for her sin.
But as if the Contessa recollected the scene of a short time before, she thrust the gentle face away before lips touched lips, and with a loud cry—
“No, no! I had forgotten. I remember now. How could you be so base? No! don’t touch me. I will see him once again. Armstrong!—my love—my own.”
She dragged herself over, and began to crawl to the door, when the Conte’s face became convulsed with passion once more, his hand sought his breast, the bag fell to the ground, and with an oath he cried—