“thrust this blade into my heart, rather than kill me by degrees.”

At the look he fixed upon her, — a look full of love, resolution, and despair, even, — she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added another word.

She tore the blade from his hands, and, pressing his arm with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said, “Do not be too hard upon me, comte. You see how I am suffering, and yet you have no pity for me.”

Tears, the cries of this strange attack, stifled her voice. As soon as De Guiche saw her weep, he took her in his arms and carried her to an armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated.