She groaned.
“Why are you so pitiless?”
“If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory from this past happiness!”
She stood up, and proudly answered—
“Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased, nothing could withdraw you from me!”
She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over him, and he lost the faculty of will-power.
“Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.”
Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard a voice, which Marcel knew well.
“Help! Baudoin, help!”
Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet, exclaimed—