ry to shed a few tears, Madame--it will be
remarked--a widow who does not weep!"

"A widow--never!" she said, with energy.

"It would be convenient if they sold tears as they sell crape, would it
not? Ah! only you women have a real talent for that--all women know how
to weep."

"You will not die, Christian--oh! tell me that you will not die--and
that you will forgive me."

"Your lover has killed me," said Bergenheim, slowly; "I have a bullet in
my chest--I feel it--I am the one who is to die--in less than an hour I
shall be a corpse--don't you see how hard it is already for me to talk?"

In reality his voice was becoming weaker and weaker. His breath grew
shorter with each word; a wheezing sound within his chest indicated the
extent of the lesion and the continued extravasation of blood.

"Mercy! pardon!" exclaimed the unhappy woman, prostrating herself upon
the floor.

"More air--open the windows--" said the Baron, as he fell back upon the
mattress, exhausted by the efforts he had just made to talk.

Madame de Bergenheim obeyed his order with the precision of an
automaton. A fresh, pure breeze entered the room; when the curtains were
raised, floods of light illuminated the floor, and the old portraits,
suddenly lighted up, looked like ghosts who had left their graves to
witness the death agonies of the last of their descendants. Christian,
refreshed by the air which swept over his face, sat up again. He gazed
with a melancholy eye at the radiant sun and the green woods which lay
stretched out in front of the chateau.

"I lost my father on such a day as this," said he, as if talking to
himself--"all our family die during the beautiful weather--ah! do you
see that smoke over the Montigny rock?" he exclaimed, suddenly.

After opening the windows, Clemence stepped out upon the balcony.
Leaning upon the balustrade, she gazed at the deep, rapid river which
flowed at her feet. Her husband's voice calling her aroused her from
this gloomy contemplation. When she returned to Christian, his eyes were
flaming, a flush like that of fever had overspread his cheeks, and a
writhing, furious indignation was depicted upon his face. "Were you
looking at that smoke?" said he, angrily; "it is your lover's signal;
he is there--he is waiting to take you away--and I, your husband, forbid
you to go--you must not leave me--your place is here--close by me."

"Close by you," she repeated, not understanding what he said.

"Wait at le