The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay
back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart,
and letting the other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half
full of water, and the water was stained with streaks of blood.

Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now
and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to
relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite
comfortable.

I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the hand
which was lying on the sofa.

"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile.

I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: "Are you unwell, too?"

"No, but you: do you still suffer?"

"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which
the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it now."

"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved voice. "I
wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from
doing yourself harm like this."

"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she replied
in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the others take of me!
They know too well that there is nothing to be done."