He touched her pale
forehead, her lips, her hands. He felt her heart, it did not beat;
he lifted her head to his bosom, it fell like the flower of a lily
broken on its stem, and he knew she was dead. He saw the red
streaks of blood on her snowy robe, and he knew she was murdered.
A long cry like the wail of a man in torture burst from him. It
woke more than one sleeper in the distant chambers of the Chateau,
making them start upon their pillows to listen for another cry, but
none came. Bigot was a man of iron; he retained self-possession
enough to recollect the danger of rousing the house.
He smothered his cries in suffocating sobs, but they reached the ear
of Cadet, who, foreboding some terrible catastrophe, rushed into the
room where the secret door stood open. The light glared up the
stair. He ran down and saw the Intendant on his knees, holding in
his arms the half raised form of a woman which he kissed and called
by name like a man distraught with grief and despair.
Cadet's coarse and immovable nature stood him in good stead at this
moment.
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