"See, see! he sits in front of a table covered with money. The wheel turns. The people who look after it do so with haggard eyes. How pale and withered they are! See how he throws the money on the table. Poor Henri—how he suffers! His brow is frozen. How horribly pale he is! He beats his breast. See that pale and pitiless man sweeping away all the money! Ah!" said she, "he quivers—he seems about to faint—no, he takes out his pocket-book, and throws other notes on the table. The wheel turns again. My God, have pity on him! Lost, lost again! He endures torments worse than death. Henri! for mercy's sake, stop—remember your wife—your Aminta—"
Her sobs increased, and inarticulate sounds burst from her chest. The Prince listened with increasing agitation to the heart-rending words of Aminta. His eyes wandered, troubled and uncertain, between the Marquise and the doctor. His eyes became cold, his cheeks livid, and from time to time the noble and venerable old man seemed to bend beneath another half century. All the others, sad and terrified, seemed fascinated by this terrible drama.
"He has in his hand his last notes," said Aminta—"he places them before him. Silence! hark, there is a confused noise. The wheel again makes its odious circle. It stops—Henri advances to take them. No, no, they are not his. The man seizes them, and takes possession of this. What does he say?" continued she, with attention—"ruined! ruined! he says. Well, what matter? it is only gold—only gold that he has lost. Dear Henri," said she, in a beseeching air, as if she knelt before him—"husband, what is the value of your money, if you love me? Listen to me. Do not weep, for your tears will kill me. Come to me—I forgive you. I will not reproach you, and you will not leave me again—never, never, never. He repels and avoids me. Whither does he go? What a desert! what an isolated street! How dark it is!—let us follow him, and not desert him. What do I see at the end of this street?" She looked through her hands, as if to enable her to see further. "What long black cloth is that? What pall is that? Henri does not walk—but I cannot follow him," said she, in a heart-rending voice. "Listen to me, Henri, I am suffering—I have walked so far and am so overcome. I do not see him—he is gone! he draws near the pall. My God! is there not a mourning-cloth painted on the horizon? It is water—a river—he rushes toward it—let us reach him—I cannot! Ah! here he is. I am with him now. What does he want. He calls me—he pronounces my name. Here I am—close—next to you. Your father also calls you. Come, come, let us turn to him. He does not hear me—he lifts his eye to heaven—he prays. Henri, Henri, why do you approach this dark water? Take care of the water—death is before you—under your very feet."...
Just then the Marquise uttered a terrible cry, and was seized with a violent nervous attack.
"You would insist, Monsieur," said the doctor to the Prince, in a reproachful tone. Then, taking the young woman's hands, he clasped them in his own, and made a few rapid passes over her face and eyes. He then made her smell a flaçon of salts, and opened a window of the room, close to which he placed the Marquise's chair. This occupied a few minutes, all who were present standing around Mme. de Maulear, and paying attention only to her. The first excitement having passed away, they discovered that the Prince de Maulear had fainted. The doctor drew near the old man, and soon restored him to consciousness. When he had recovered his senses, the Prince called the doctor to him, and whispered, "Do you believe all this?"
The doctor clasped the hand of the Prince, and went away.
The Marquise de Maulear, smiling and calm, said, "Have I not been asleep?"
Her memory, however, recalled nothing of the scenes which had passed before her in her somnambulism. She forgot, as people frequently do, both pleasant and mournful dreams....
Fifteen days after this scene Mme. de Maulear saw her mother stop at the hotel of the Prince. Behind Signora Rovero, humble and trembling, was the deformed and courageous boy, whom the children of Sorrento had called Scorpione. The Marquise, both happy and surprised, rushed into her mother's arms. With great anxiety, she suddenly cried, "Henri—the Marquis—where is he?"
In reply, the Signora Rovero clasped her daughter to her breast, and wept.