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, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.
Milady plainly perceived that it was now her turn to take part in the scene. She ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton had laid down, exclaimed, “And by what right will you prevent me from dying?”
“Great God!” exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her hand.
At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway.
“Ah,” 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 easy, no blood will flow.”
Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an immediate 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 fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a cuirass, defended the chests of women. It had glided down it, tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs. Milady’s robe was not the less stained with blood in a second.