If he did not rush to her
feet, if he did not come to her in tears, and pale, and like a lover,
she knew that all was lost. And yet, so many hopes are there in the
heart of a woman who loves, that she is only slain by stab after stab,
and loves on till the last drop of life-blood drains away.
"Does madame need anything?" Jacques asked gently, as he went away.
"No," she said.
"Poor fellow!" she thought, brushing a tear from her eyes, "he guesses
my feelings, servant though he is!"
She read: "My beloved, you are inventing idle terrors for
yourself . . ." The Marquise gazed at the words, and a thick mist
spread before her eyes. A voice in her heart cried, "He lies!"--Then
she glanced down the page with the clairvoyant eagerness of passion,
and read these words at the foot, "/Nothing has been decided as
yet . . ./" Turning to the other side with convulsive quickness, she
saw the mind of the writer distinctly through the intricacies of the
wording; this was no spontaneous outburst of love. She crushed it in
her fingers, twisted it, tore it with her teeth, flung it in the fire,
and cried aloud, "Ah! base that he is! I was his, and he had ceased to
love me!"
She sank half dead upon the couch.
M. de Nueil went out as soon as he had written his letter. When he
came back, Jacques met him on the threshold with a note.
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