d
innocence of an angel.

Chapter 102. Valentine.

The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting the
last drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globe
of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening before
it expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate object
have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human creature in
its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over the bedclothes
and curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in the streets had
ceased, and the silence was frightful. It was then that the door of
Edward's room opened, and a head we have before noticed appeared in
the glass opposite; it was Madame de Villefort, who came to witness
the effects of the drink she had prepared. She stopped in the doorway,
listened for a moment to the flickering of the lamp, the only sound in
that deserted room, and then advanced to the table to see if Valentine's
glass were empty. It was still about a quarter full, as we before
stated. Madame de Villefort emptied the contents into the ashes, which
she disturbed that they might the more readily absorb the liquid; then
she carefully rinsed the glass, and wiping it with her handkerchief
replaced it on the table.

If any one could have looked into the room just then he would have
noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the bed
and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound silence,
and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more by her own
conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the poisoner
was terrified at the contemplation of her own work. At length she
rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the pillow gazed
intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed, no breath
issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no longer
quivered--the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the long black
lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon
the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she ventured to raise
the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl's heart. It was
cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, and
withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed;
from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of Germain
Pillon's "Graces," [*] but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly distorted
by