“Is the Countess dead then?” asked Thibault.
“The Countess is dead, and the Count is dead.”
“From the effect of the wounds given him by the Baron Raoul?”
“No, from the blow with the dagger given him by the Countess.”
“Ah!” said Thibault, grimacing hideously, in his effort to force a laugh in the midst of this grim drama, “all this tale you hint at is new to me.”
Then Lisette told him the tale in full. It was a plain tale, but a terrible one.
The Countess had remained in bed part of the day, listening to the village bells of Puiseux, which were tolling as the Baron’s body was being borne from thence to Vauparfond, where he was to be laid in the family grave. Towards four o’clock the bells ceased; then the Countess rose, took the dagger from under her pillow, hid it in her breast, and went towards her husband’s room. She found the valet in attendance in good spirits; the doctor had just left, having examined the wound, and declared the Count’s life out of danger.
“Madame will agree that it is a thing to rejoice at!” said the valet.
“Yes, to rejoice at indeed.”
And the Countess went on into her husband’s room. Five minutes later she left it again.
“The Count is sleeping,” she said, “do not go in until he calls.”
The valet bowed and sat down in the anteroom to be in readiness at the first call from his master. The Countess went back to her room.
“Undress me, Lisette,” she said to her waiting maid, “and give me the clothes that I had on the last time he came.”