“Are they all there?” he demanded.
“Yes, all.”
But before returning to him she cast a last look upon that destruction, and on that mass of papers, already half consumed, twisting and turning black, and she saw something red flowing. It looked like drops of blood, and seemed to come out of the very heart of the letters, as from a wound; it ran slowly toward the flames, leaving a purple train.
The Countess received in her soul the shock of supernatural terror, and recoiled as if she had seen the assassination of a human being; then she suddenly understood that she had seen simply the melting of the wax seals.
She returned to the wounded man, and lifting his head tenderly laid it back in the center of the pillow. But he had moved, and his pain increased. He was panting now, his face drawn by fearful suffering, and he no longer seemed to know that she was there.
She waited for him to become a little calmer, to open his eyes, which remained closed, to be able to say one word more to her.
Presently she asked: “Do you suffer much?”
He did not reply.
She bent over him and laid a finger on his forehead to make him look at her. He opened his eyes then, but they were wild and dazed.
Terrified, she repeated: “Do you suffer? Olivier! Answer me! Shall I call? Make an effort! Say something to me!”