CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SAME DAY: ITS SECOND PART.
From his lodgings Fulvius went out into the night-air, which was crisp and sharp, to cool his blood, and still his throbbing brows. He wandered about, almost without any purpose; but found himself imperceptibly drawing nearer and nearer to the Tullian prison. As he was literally without affection, what could be his attraction thither? It was a strangely compounded feeling, made up of as bitter ingredients as ever filled the poisoner’s cup. There was gnawing remorse; there was baffled pride; there was goading avarice; there was humbling shame; there was a terrible sense of the approaching consummation of his villany. It was true, he had been rejected, scorned, baffled by a mere child, while her fortune was necessary for his rescue from beggary and death,—so at least he reasoned; yet he would still rather have her hand than her head. Her murder appeared revoltingly atrocious to him, unless absolutely inevitable. So he would give her another chance.
He was now at the prison gate, of which he possessed the watchword. He pronounced it, entered, and, at his desire, was conducted to his victim’s cell. She did not flutter, nor run into a corner, like a bird into whose cage the hawk has found entrance; calm and intrepid, she stood before him.
“Respect me here, Fulvius, at least,” she gently said; “I have but a few hours to live: let them be spent in peace.”
“Madam,” he replied, “I have come to lengthen them, if you please, to years; and, instead of peace, I offer happiness.”
“Surely, sir, if I understand you, the time is past for this sad vanity. Thus to address one whom you have delivered over to death, is at best a mockery.”
“It is not so, gentle lady; your fate is in your own hands; only your own obstinacy will give you over to death. I have come to renew, once more, my offer, and with it that of life. It is your last chance.”
“Have I not before told you that I am a Christian; and that I would forfeit a thousand lives rather than betray my faith?”