“The real culprit,” said milady, “is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the cowardly ravisher of the honour of so many women—he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart, is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants to-day and will betray them to-morrow—”
“Buckingham! Then it is Buckingham!” cried Felton, in exasperation.
Milady hid her face in her hands, as if she could not endure the shame which this name recalled to her.
“Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!” cried Felton. “And Thou hast not hurled Thy thunder at him, my God! And Thou hast left him noble, honoured, powerful, for the ruin of us all!”
“God abandons him who abandons himself,” said milady.
“But He will draw down on his head the punishment reserved for the damned!” said Felton, with increasing excitement. “He wishes that human vengeance should precede heavenly justice.”
“Men fear him and spare him.”
“I,” said Felton—“I do not fear him, nor will I spare him!”
Milady felt her soul bathed in a hellish joy.
Several knocks resounded on the door. This time milady really pushed him away from her.
“Hark!” said she; “we have been overheard. Some one is coming! All is over! We are lost!”
“No,” said Felton; “it is only the sentinel warning me that they are about to change guard.”
“Then run to the door and open it yourself.”
Felton obeyed. This woman was already his whole thought, his whole soul.
He found a sergeant in command of a watch patrol.
“Well, what is the matter?” asked the young lieutenant.
“You told me to open the door if I heard any one cry out,” said the soldier; “but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out without understanding what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant.”
“And here I am,” said the sergeant.
Felton, bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.
Milady, perceiving that it was now her turn to come forward, ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton had laid down,
“And what right have you to prevent me from dying?” said she.
“Great God!” exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her hand.
At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. Attracted by the noise, the baron, in his dressing-gown, his sword under his arm, was standing in the doorway.
“Ah, ha!” said he; “here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named. But be at ease; no blood will flow.”
Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an instant and terrible proof of her courage.
“You are mistaken, my lord—blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!”
Felton uttered a cry and rushed toward her. He was too late; milady had stabbed herself.
But the knife had very fortunately, we should say skilfully, come in contact with the steel busk which at that period, like a cuirass, defended women’s bosoms; it had glided down it, tearing her dress, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs.
Milady’s robe was none the less stained with blood in a second. Milady fell backward and seemed to have fainted.
Felton snatched away the knife.
“See, my lord,” said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, “here is a woman who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!”
“Do not worry, Felton,” said Lord Winter. “She is not dead; demons do not die so easily. Do not worry, but go wait for me in my chamber.”
“But my lord—”
“Go, sir; I command you.”
At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but as he went out he put the knife into his bosom.
Lord Winter contented himself with calling the woman who waited on milady, and when she came he recommended the prisoner, who was still in a swoon, to her care, and left her alone with her.
But as the wound after all might be serious, he immediately sent off a man on horseback to fetch a doctor.
