She stopped from time to time, shivering—­as if better to taste the dramatic solemnity that surrounded them—­turned her blonde head a little to look at Camors; then cast on him her inspiring smile, placed her hand on her heart, as if to say, “I am fearful,” and went on.  They reached her chamber, where a dim lamp faintly illumined the sombre magnificence, the sculptured wainscotings, and the heavy draperies.

The flame on the hearth which flickered up at intervals, threw a bright gleam on two or three pictures of the Spanish school, which were the only decorations of this sumptuous, but stern-looking apartment.

The Marquise sank as if terrified on a divan near the chimney, and pushed with her feet two cushions before her, on which Camors half reclined; she then thrust back the thick braids of her hair, and leaned toward her lover.

“Do you love me to-day?” she asked.

The soft breath of her voice was passing over the face of Camors, when the door suddenly opened before them.  The General entered.  The Marquise and Camors instantly rose to their feet, and standing side by side, motionless, gazed upon him.  The General paused near the door.  As he saw them a shudder passed over his frame, and his face assumed a livid pallor.  For an instant his eye rested on Camors with a stupefied surprise and almost bewilderment; then he raised his arms over his head, and his hands struck together with a sharp sound.  At this terrible moment Madame de Campvallon seized the arm of Camors, and threw him a look so profound, supplicating, and tragic, that it alarmed him.

He roughly pushed her from him, crossed his arms, and waited the result.

The General walked slowly toward him.  Suddenly his face became inflamed with a purple hue; his lips half opened, as if about to deliver some deadly insult.  He advanced rapidly, his hand raised; but after a few steps the old man suddenly stopped, beat the air with both hands, as if seeking some support, then staggered and fell forward, striking his head against the marble mantelpiece, rolled on the carpet, and remained motionless.  There was an ominous silence.  A stifled cry from M. de Camors broke it.  At the same time he threw himself on his knees by the side of the motionless old man, touched first his hand, then his heart.  He saw that he was dead.  A thin thread of blood trickled down his pale forehead where it had struck the marble; but this was only a slight wound.  It was not that which had killed him.  It was the treachery of those two beings whom he had loved, and who, he believed, loved him.  His heart had been broken by the violence of the surprise, the grief, and the horror.