“Burn them!  Burn them, Any!” Olivier repeated.

With the same movement of both hands, she cast into the fireplace the two packets of papers, which became scattered as they fell upon the wood.  Then she seized those that remained in the desk and threw them on top of the others, then another handful, with swift movements, stooping and rising again quickly, to finish as soon as might be this terrible task.

When the fireplace was full and the drawer empty, she remained standing, waiting, watching the almost smothered flames as they crept up from all sides on that mountain of envelopes.  They attacked them first at the edges, gnawed at the corners, ran along the edge of the paper, went out, sprang up again, and went creeping on and on.  Soon, all around that white pyramid glowed a vivid girdle of clear fire which filled the room with light; and this light, illuminating the woman standing and the man dying, was their burning love, their love turned to ashes.

The Countess turned, and in the dazzling light of that fire she beheld her friend leaning with a haggard face on the edge of the bed.

“Are they all there?” he demanded.

“Yes, all.”

But before returning to him she cast a last look upon that destruction, and on that mass of papers, already half consumed, twisting and turning black, and she saw something red flowing.  It looked like drops of blood, and seemed to come out of the very heart of the letters, as from a wound; it ran slowly toward the flames, leaving a purple train.

The Countess received in her soul the shock of supernatural terror, and recoiled as if she had seen the assassination of a human being; then she suddenly understood that she had seen simply the melting of the wax seals.

She returned to the wounded man, and lifting his head tenderly laid it back in the center of the pillow.  But he had moved, and his pain increased.  He was panting now, his face drawn by fearful suffering, and he no longer seemed to know that she was there.

She waited for him to become a little calmer, to open his eyes, which remained closed, to be able to say one word more to her.

Presently she asked:  “Do you suffer much?”

He did not reply.

She bent over him and laid a finger on his forehead to make him look at her.  He opened his eyes then, but they were wild and dazed.

Terrified, she repeated:  “Do you suffer?  Olivier!  Answer me!  Shall I call?  Make an effort!  Say something to me!”

She thought she heard him murmur:  “Bring her . . . you swore to me.”

Then he writhed under the bedclothes, his body grew rigid, his face convulsed with awful grimaces.

“Olivier!  My God!  Olivier!” she cried.  “What is the matter?  Shall I call?”

This time he heard her, for he replied, “No . . . it is nothing.”