He threw himself upon her, took her in his arms and pressed her to him.
“Dead—” he said.
There was a moment of stupefaction. Shears seemed confounded by his own act. Victoire stammered:
“My poor boy—my poor boy—”
Beautrelet went up to the young woman and stooped to examine her. Lupin repeated:
“Dead—dead—”
He said it in a reflective tone, as though he did not yet understand. But his face became hollow, suddenly transformed, ravaged by grief. And then he was seized with a sort of madness, made senseless gestures, wrung his hands, stamped his feet, like a child that suffers more than it is able to bear.
“You villain!” he cried, suddenly, in an access of hatred.
And, flinging Shears back with a formidable blow, he took him by the throat and dug his twitching fingers into his flesh.
The Englishman gasped, without even struggling.