You love her, I know that; I have guessed truly that you hid your suspicions to spare her pain.I tell you once again, my life is a hell, and I would joyfully give it to you in expiation of what Ihave done; but she, Andre, she, your mother, who has never, never cherished a thought that was not pure and noble, no, do not inflict this torture upon her.""Words, words!" I answered, moved to the bottom of my soul in spite of myself, by the outburst of an anguish in which I was forced to recognize sincerity."It is because my mother is noble and pure that I will not have her remain the wife of a vile murderer for a day longer.You shall kill yourself, or she shall know all.""Do it then if you dare," he replied, with a return to the natural pride of his character, at the ferocity of my answer."Do it if you dare! Yes, she is my wife, yes, she loves me; go and tell her, and kill her yourself with the words.Ha, you see! You turn pale at the mere thought.I have allowed you to live, yes, I, on account of her, and do you suppose I do not hate you as much as you hate me? Nevertheless, I have respected you because you were dear to her, and you will have to do the same with me.Yes, do you hear, it must be so--"It was he who was giving orders now, he who was threatening.How plainly had he read my mind, to stand up before me in such an attitude! Furious passion broke loose in me; I took in the facts of the situation.This man had loved my mother madly enough to purchase her at the cost of the murder of his most intimate friend, and he loved her after all those years passionately enough to desire that not one of the days he had still to pass with her might be lost to him.And it was also true that never, never should Ihave the courage to reveal the terrific truth to the poor woman.
I was suddenly carried away by rage to the point of losing all control over my frenzy."Ah!" I cried, "since you will not do justice on yourself, die then, at once!" I stretched out my hand and seized the dagger which he had recently placed upon the table.
He looked at me without flinching, or recoiling; indeed presenting his breast to me, as though to brave my childish rage.I was on his left bending down, and ready to spring.I saw his smile of contempt, and then with all my strength I struck him with the knife in the direction of the heart.
The blade entered his body to the hilt.
No sooner had I done this thing than I recoiled, wild with terror at the deed.He uttered a cry.His face was distorted with terrible agony, and he moved his right hand towards the wound, as though he would draw out the dagger.He looked at me, convulsed; Isaw that he wanted to speak; his lips moved, but no sound issued from his mouth.The expression of a supreme effort passed into his eyes, he turned to the table, took a pen, dipped it into the inkstand, and traced two lines on a sheet of paper within his reach.He looked at me again, his lips moved once more, then he fell down like a log.
I remember--I saw the body stretched upon the carpet, between the table and the tall mantelpiece, within two feet of me.Iapproached him, I bent over his face.His eyes seemed to follow me even after death.
Yes, he was dead.
The doctor who certified the death explained afterwards that the knife had passed through the cardiac muscle without completely penetrating the left cavity of the heart, and that, the blood not being shed all at once, death had not been instantaneous.
I cannot tell how long he lived after I struck him, nor do I know how long I remained in the same place, overwhelmed by the thought:
