Francine was standing with clasped hands as though paralyzed.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who recovered her presence of mind before
the danger that threatened her, cast a look of contempt at the
assembled men, snatched the letter from Madame du Gua's hand, threw up
her head with a flashing eye, and darted towards the door where
Merle's sword was still leaning. There she came upon the marquis, cold
and motionless as a statue. Nothing pleaded for her on his fixed, firm
features. Wounded to the heart, life seemed odious to her. The man who
had pledged her so much love must have heard the odious jests that
were cast upon her, and stood there silently a witness of the infamy
she had been made to endure. She might, perhaps, have forgiven him his
contempt, but she could not forgive his having seen her in so
humiliating a position, and she flung him a look that was full of
hatred, feeling in her heart the birth of an unutterable desire for
vengeance. With death beside her, the sense of impotence almost
strangled her. A whirlwind of passion and madness rose in her head;
the blood which boiled in her veins made everything about her seem
like a conflagration. Instead of killing herself, she seized the sword
and thrust it though the marquis. But the weapon slipped between his
arm and side; he caught her by the wrist and dragged her from the
room, aided by Pille-Miche, who had flung himself upon the furious
creature when she attacked his master.
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