"Olympia!" cried he, at last, with a supreme effort to dissolve the spell.
She threw back her proud head, and came directly in front of his chair. "You recognise me," said she, in tones of icy hauteur. "I was waiting before I spoke, to see whether you had forgotten me."
"What brings you hither?" stammered he, confusedly.
"Destiny," replied she, sternly. "Louvois, God is just, for He has chosen me to be the instrument of your destruction. I was travelling through Turin to nurse my son, who was not expected to live. I learned that his illness was of the heart—not of the body. His Laura had been murdered before his eyes, and, for love of her, he was in danger of dying. Ah, Louvois! it was the second time you had almost robbed me of my child! But God is just! To my hands were confided the proofs of your participation in the crime of your daughter's assassination, and it was I that delivered them to the Duchess of Orleans. She had her Laura's death to avenge, I—great God! what had I not? The humiliation of my flight from France—my persecution by strangers in a foreign land—my son's lifelong sorrow!—But ah! you, that drove him from his native country, have fallen, to rise no more, while Eugene's name is but another word throughout the world for genius and valor."
Louvois' teeth chattered with fear. He raised his hand, as if to implore forbearance. She gave him, in return, a look of scorn.
"All Paris rings with your disgrace. The populace are before your windows, ready, at a signal, to assault your palace, as, at your son's instigation, they once assailed mine. Your servants are stealing away, and you are forsaken! Poor, fallen, powerless Louvois!"
"Not so," screamed Louvois, "not so! If I am powerless it is because I am dying!" And, with a passionate gesture, he tore the bandages from his arm.
The blood gushed out like water from a fountain, and Olympia looked on for a while in cruel enjoyment of her enemy's mortal agony. But her hatred was unclouded by passion.
"It were a kindness to suffer you to die now," said she; and her words fell like sharp icicles upon his poor, lacerated heart. "But you shall live to endure the contumely you forced upon me and mine! Farewell! I go to call for help."
She crossed the room, and, as she entered the antechamber, Louvois swooned, and fell upon the floor.