“Must not be awakened,” repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone—something of triumph in his countenance.
“Perhaps you think,” said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face, “that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?”
“She has told, then. A curse upon woman’s cowardice and woman’s treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Génifrède loved me? And now, when put to the test—”
“Now, when put to the test,” interrupted Toussaint, “my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superstition—terrified her with spells and charms—”
“You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only—”
“And you wished it—you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost—and now you curse a woman’s cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon. Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Génifrède’s.”
“Stop!” cried Moyse, “I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Génifrède from me? She is mine.”
“Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven’s pardon for your intent towards her.” And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.
“Yes,” exclaimed Moyse, “with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together.”
“Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours.” And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.