“That day in the Champs Elysées,” repeated Barthelma, in a low and hollow tone, “is one accursed in my memory and in my life! Wretch—profligate—shameless wanton,” he exclaimed, all his infuriate passion now bursting forth,—“how dare you allude to that day?—how can you think of it without the crimson blush of shame? For whose sake did you deck yourself out so meretriciously on that occasion?—whose jealousy was it to inspire, that you bent your warm and lustful looks on me that day?—whom to beguile and win back to your arms, perhaps, was that deceptive note written that induced me, Di Ponta, and Charles Hatfield—”
“Ah! then you know every thing!” exclaimed Perdita, suddenly throwing off the suppliant air and the appealing looks which she had ere now assumed, and resolving to act with the energy natural to her character. “It is useless, signor, to prolong this painful interview: I have already made the same observation—and I now wish you to understand that I will not remain a prisoner any longer here. Open that door and let me depart—or I shall summon the servants.”
Thus speaking, she advanced towards the bell-pull.
“You menace me—you dare to menace me?” exclaimed Barthelma, springing forward and confronting her so as to bar the way; and his whole frame was quivering with a rage that appeared ready to burst forth into the ungovernable fury of a perfect madness.
“How dare you thus coerce me?” demanded Perdita, her eyes flashing fire. “Out of my path, coward—unless you intend to enact the Italian bravo in this country where men are wont to be brave and chivalrous.”
And, as she spoke, she pushed him disdainfully aside.
But ere the eye had time to wink or the heart to palpitate once—and while a sound, between a cry and a yell, of frenzied rage burst from the lips of the maddened Barthelma,—his dagger flashed before the sight of Perdita, and was instantly buried deep in her bosom.
A thrilling, agonising scream proclaimed her mortal agony—then ceased suddenly; and, staggering forward a few paces, she fell heavily on the carpet—and expired!
Barthelma stood for a few moments rivetted to the spot, silent and motionless with horror at the deed which he had perpetrated; while in his soul a revulsion of feeling took place with the whelming rapidity that marks the ebb of a portentous tide.
A mortal dread came over him—and then he burst into an agony of tears; and throwing himself on the still palpitating body of her whose wondrous beauty had been his pride and his joy, he began to lament her death in the most passionate terms.