Oh, give it to me, and
be blessed as the welcomest messenger that ever came to Beaumanoir!"
La Corriveau held her hand a moment more in the basket. Her dark
features turned a shade paler, although not a nerve quivered as she
plucked out a parcel carefully wrapped in silver tissue. She
slipped off the cover, and held at arm's length towards the eager,
expectant girl, the fatal bouquet of roses, beautiful to see as the
fairest that ever filled the lap of Flora.
Caroline clasped it with both hands, exclaiming in a voice of
exultation, while every feature radiated with joy, "It is the gift
of God, and the return of Francois's love! All will yet be well!"
She pressed the glowing flowers to her lips with passionate kisses,
breathed once or twice their mortal poison, and suddenly throwing
back her head with her dark eyes fixed on vacancy, but holding the
fatal bouquet fast in her hands, fell dead at the feet of La
Corriveau.
A weird laugh, terrible and unsuppressed, rang around the walls of
the secret chamber, where the lamps burned bright as ever; but the
glowing pictures of the tapestry never changed a feature.
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