THE NUPTIAL BED.
The mild light of a circular lamp of oriental alabaster, suspended from the ceiling by three silver chains, spreads a faint lustre through the bed-chamber of Adrienne de Cardoville.
The large ivory bedstead, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is not at present occupied, and almost disappears beneath snowy curtains of lace and muslin, transparent and vapory as clouds.On the white marble mantlepiece, from beneath which the fire throws ruddy beams on the ermine carpet, is the usual basket filled with a bush of red camellias, in the midst of their shining green leaves.A pleasant aromatic odor, rising from a warm and perfumed bath in the next room, penetrates every corner of the bed-chamber.All without is calm and silent.It is hardly eleven o'clock.The ivory door, opposite to that which leads to the bath-room, opens slowly.Djalma appears.Two hours have elapsed since he committed a double murder, and believed that he had killed Adrienne in a fit of jealous fury.
The servants of Mdlle.de Cardoville, accustomed to Djalma's daily visits, no longer announced his arrival, and admitted him without difficulty, having received no orders to the contrary from their mistress.He had never before entered the bed-chamber, but, knowing that the apartment the lady occupied was on the first floor of the house, he had easily found it.As he entered that virgin sanctuary, his countenance was pretty calm, so well did he control his feelings, only a slight paleness tarnished the brilliant amber of his complexion.He wore that day a robe of purple cashmere, striped with silver--a color which did not show the stains of blood upon it.Djalma closed the door after him, and tore off his white turban, for it seemed to him as if a band of hot iron encircled his brow.His dark hair streamed around his handsome face.He crossed his arms upon his bosom, and looked slowly about him.
When his eyes rested on Adrienne's bed, he started suddenly, and his cheek grew purple.Then he drew his hand across his brow, hung down his head, and remained standing for some moments in a dream, motionless as a statue.
After a mournful silence of a few seconds' duration, Djalma fell upon his knees, and raised his eyes to heaven.The Asiatic's countenance was bathed in tears, and no longer expressed any violent passion.On his features was no longer the stamp of hate, or despair, or the ferocious joy of vengeance gratified.It was rather the expression of grief at once simple and immense.For several minutes he was almost choked with sobs, and tears ran freely down his cheeks.
"Dead! dead!" he murmured, in a half-stifled voice."She, who this morning slept so peacefully in this chamber! And I have killed her.Now that she is dead, what is her treachery to me? I should not have killed her for that.She had betrayed me; she loved the man whom I slew--she loved him! Alas! I could not hope to gain the preference," added he, with a touching mixture of resignation and remorse; "I, poor, untaught youth--how could I merit her love? It was my fault that she did not love me; but, always generous, she concealed from me her indifference, that she might not make me too unhappy--and for that I killed her.What was her crime? Did she not meet me freely? Did she not open to me her dwelling? Did she not allow me to pass whole days with her? No doubt she tried to love me, and could not.I loved her with all the faculties of my soul, but my love was not such as she required.For that, I should not have killed her.But a fatal delusion seized me and, after it was done, I woke as from a dream.Alas! it was not a dream: I have killed her.And yet--until this evening--what happiness I owed to her--what hope--what joy! She made my heart better, nobler, more generous.All came from her," added the Indian, with a new burst of grief."That remained with me--no one could take from me that treasure of the past--
that ought to have consoled me.But why think of it? I struck them both--her and the man--without a struggle.It was a cowardly murder--the ferocity of the tiger that tears its innocent prey!"
Djalma buried his face in his hands.Then, drying his tears, he resumed, "I know, clearly, that I mean to die also.But my death will not restore her to life!"
He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea's bloody dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood-
stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which was thus slightly stained with red.
"Yes," resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, "I know well that I am about to die.It is right.Blood for blood; my life for hers.How happens it that my steel did not turn aside? How could I kill her?--but it is done--and my heart is full of remorse, and sorrow, an inexpressible tenderness--and I have come here--to die!
"Here, in this chamber," he continued, "the heaven of my burning visions!" And then he added, with a heartrending accent, as he again buried his face in his hands, "Dead! dead!"
"Well! I too shall soon be dead," he resumed, in a firmer voice."But, no! I will die slowly, gradually.A few drops of the poison will suffice; and, when I am quite certain of dying, my remorse will perhaps be less terrible.Yesterday, she pressed my hand when we parted.Who could have foretold me this?" The Indian raised the phial resolutely to his lips.He drank a few drops of the liquor it contained, and replaced it on a little ivory table close to Adrienne's bed.
"This liquor is sharp and hot," said he."Now I am certain to die.Oh!
that I may still have time to feast on the sight and perfume of this chamber--to lay my dying head on the couch where she has reposed."
Djalma fell on his knees beside the bed, and leaned against it his burning brow.At this moment, the ivory door, which communicated with the bath-room, rolled gently on its hinges, and Adrienne entered.The young lady had just sent away her woman, who had assisted to undress her.
