He wondered at
that, for her quick ear used always to catch the first sound of his
footsteps while yet afar off.
He knocked louder, and called again her name. Alas! he might have
called forever! That voice would never make her heart flutter again
or her eyes brighten at his footstep, that sounded sweeter than any
music as she waited and watched for him, always ready to meet him at
the door.
Bigot anticipated something wrong, and with a hasty hand pushed open
the door of the secret chamber and went in. A blaze of light filled
his eyes. A white form lay upon the floor. He saw it and he saw
nothing else! She lay there with her unclosed eyes looking as the
dead only look at the living. One hand was pressed to her bosom,
the other was stretched out, holding the broken stem and a few green
leaves of the fatal bouquet which La Corriveau had not wholly
plucked from her grasp.
Bigot stood for a moment stricken dumb and transfixed with horror,
then sprang forward and knelt over her with a cry of agony. He
thought she might have fallen in a swoon.
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