“‘Henry-Henry de Sampierre!’

“Then I was told that he was going to marry you.  That was a blow!  Oh, sister, a terrible blow—­terrible!  I wept all through three sleepless nights.

“He came every afternoon after lunch.  You remember, don’t you?  Don’t answer.  Listen.  You used to make cakes that he was very fond of—­with flour, butter and milk.  Oh, I know how to make them.  I could make them still, if necessary.  He would swallow them at one mouthful and wash them down with a glass of wine, saying:  ‘Delicious!’ Do you remember the way he said it?

“I was jealous—­jealous!  Your wedding day was drawing near.  It was only a fortnight distant.  I was distracted.  I said to myself:  ’He shall not marry Suzanne—­no, he shall not!  He shall marry me when I am old enough!  I shall never love any one half so much.’  But one evening, ten days before the wedding, you went for a stroll with him in the moonlight before the house—­and yonder—­under the pine tree, the big pine tree—­he kissed you—­kissed you—­and held you in his arms so long—­so long!  You remember, don’t you?  It was probably the first time.  You were so pale when you came back to the drawing-room!

“I saw you.  I was there in the shrubbery.  I was mad with rage!  I would have killed you both if I could!

“I said to myself:  ’He shall never marry Suzanne—­never!  He shall marry no one!  I could not bear it.’  And all at once I began to hate him intensely.

“Then do you know what I did?  Listen.  I had seen the gardener prepare pellets for killing stray dogs.  He would crush a bottle into small pieces with a stone and put the ground glass into a ball of meat.

“I stole a small medicine bottle from mother’s room.  I ground it fine with a hammer and hid the glass in my pocket.  It was a glistening powder.  The next day, when you had made your little cakes; I opened them with a knife and inserted the glass.  He ate three.  I ate one myself.  I threw the six others into the pond.  The two swans died three days later.  You remember?  Oh, don’t speak!  Listen, listen.  I, I alone did not die.  But I have always been ill.  Listen—­he died—­you know—­listen—­that was not the worst.  It was afterward, later—­always—­the most terrible—­listen.

“My life, all my life—­such torture!  I said to myself:  ’I will never leave my sister.  And on my deathbed I will tell her all.’  And now I have told.  And I have always thought of this moment—­the moment when all would be told.  Now it has come.  It is terrible—­oh!—­sister—­

“I have always thought, morning and evening, day and night:  ’I shall have to tell her some day!’ I waited.  The horror of it!  It is done.  Say nothing.  Now I am afraid—­I am afraid!  Oh!  Supposing I should see him again, by and by, when I am dead!  See him again!  Only to think of it!  I dare not—­yet I must.  I am going to die.  I want you to forgive me.  I insist on it.  I cannot meet him without your forgiveness.  Oh, tell her to forgive me, Father!  Tell her.  I implore you!  I cannot die without it.”