"Ah!" he cried. "That woman only became a criminal because she touched me. I exude crime, moi! She contracted crime as one contracts typhus, as one contracts cholera, as the Orcs contract the element of Morgot! And I punish her! I, I dare to say to her: Repent and die! Oh, the alliance of the tiger and the serpent! Worthy bride of a husband such as I! She must live, her infamy must be shown to pale in comparison with mine!"
Consoled with the thought that in saving Mme. de Villefaramir he was performing a good deed for once, Villefaramir came to the door of the room where he had left his wife.
"Béruthielle!" he cried. "Béruthielle!"
"Who is there?" asked the voice of her whom he called. It seemed to him that the voice was weaker than aforetime.
"It is I; open!" he cried. But despite the tone of anguish with which this command was uttered, one did not open. Villefaramir forced open the door.
At the entrance of the chamber that gave into her boudoir, Mme. de Villefaramir stood, pale, her face contracted, and stared at him with a terrifying fixity like an animated pitcher.
"Béruthielle, what is wrong with you? Speak!" he cried.
