Thereupon the young man, standing erect beside the writing-table, began
to dictate the names in a low voice; and then, amid the deep silence
sounded a low and monotonous murmur.
The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting for
Constance. At last a little door of the death-chamber slowly opened, and
she entered that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that she
was there. She looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness into
the pale light of the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face was livid,
contracted, hardened by cold rage. Her little figure, instead of bending,
seemed to have grown taller beneath the injustice of destiny, as if borne
up by furious rebellion. Yet her loss did not surprise her. She had
immediately felt that she had expected it, although but a minute before
the death she had stubbornly refused to believe it possible. But the
thought of it had remained latent within her for long months, and
frightful evidence thereof now burst forth. She suddenly heard the
whispers of the unknown once more, and understood them; she knew the
meaning of those shivers which had chilled her, those vague,
terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! And that which had been
threatening her had come; irreparable destiny had willed it that her only
son, the salvation of the imperilled home, the prince of to-morrow, who
was to share his empire with her, should be swept away like a withered
leaf.
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