“But—my good Juana, my little Juana, do you think—Juana! is it so pressing?—I want to kiss you.”
The gendarmes were mounting the staircase. Juana grasped the pistol, aimed it at Diard, holding him, in spite of his cries, by the throat; then she blew his brains out and flung the weapon on the ground.
At that instant the door was opened violently. The public prosecutor, followed by an examining judge, a doctor, a sheriff, and a posse of gendarmes, all the representatives, in short, of human justice, entered the room.
“What do you want?” asked Juana.
“Is that Monsieur Diard?” said the prosecutor, pointing to the dead body bent double on the floor.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Your gown is covered with blood, madame.”
“Do you not see why?” replied Juana.
She went to the little table and sat down, taking up the volume of Cervantes; she was pale, with a nervous agitation which she nevertheless controlled, keeping it wholly inward.
“Leave the room,” said the prosecutor to the gendarmes.