“Better to die so,” she mutters. “I am not good, neither was he, so we two may yet meet again!”
A dull sound like a break in the water, a glint of golden hair on the edge of a ripple——
* * * * *
Her face is fair even in death, as she lies here, in the terrible Morgue, among ghastly things that bring horror and shrinking to human hearts.
“Sapristi! C’est Marguerite Ange! La Blonde aux Yeux Noir,” a man in a blouse says in a hushed voice, as he peers through the little glass window.
“Elle est belle à faire peur!” answers his companion.
And this is her requiem.
