"A duel," said Georges with an effort,--he would fain have detained her, would fain have found the conventional phrases with which men attempt to break bad news, he could not recall any, and he stammered.
"A duel?" she asked sharply, "with whom?"
"With Capriani;--he...."
Before he could say another word she had opened the door and had entered Oswald's room.
They had lain him on his bed,--the noble outlines of his stalwart figure were distinctly visible beneath the white sheet;--his face was uncovered, and bathed in all the ideal charm of dead youth.
The Countess staggered, tried to hold herself erect, tripped over her dress, and fell; then dragged herself on her knees to the bed of her dead child. At its foot she lay, her face buried in her hands.
When, two hours afterward, Truyn who had been informed of the frightful catastrophe entered the room with Georges Lodrin, she was still kneeling in the same place, her head still in her hands.
Profoundly shocked Truyn bent over her, and gently begged her to leave the room. She arose mechanically, and leaning upon his arm went to the door. There she paused, turned, and hurried back to the bed. They feared that force would be necessary to separate her from the dead body, when Georges remembered the message entrusted to him by the dying man. In the tumult, the horror, in his own terrible grief he had forgotten it. "Let me try to persuade her, wait for me here," said he to Truyn, and going to the bedside where the Countess was again kneeling he whispered: "Aunt, I have a message for you from him; he died in my arms, and while dying he thought of you!"
She shrank away from him.
"To-day is his birthday," Georges continued, "he remembered it in his last moments and begged me to tell you, and, for God's sake not to forget it, that he thanked you for the past happy twenty-six years, and that he kissed your dear, dear hands in token of farewell."