That kiss--there came to her again, suddenly, Madame Degardy's cry of
warning: "Don't get his breath--it's death, idiot!"
That was it: the black fever was in her veins! That one kiss had sealed
her own doom. She knew it now.
He had given her life by giving her love. Well, he should give her death
too--her lord of fife and death. She was of the chosen few who could
drink the cup of light and the cup of darkness with equally regnant soul.
But it might lay her low in the very hour of Valmond's trouble. She must
conquer it--how? To whom could she turn for succour? There was but
one,--yet she could not seek Madame Degardy, for the old woman would
drive her to her bed, and keep her there. There was only this to do:
to possess herself of those wonderful herbs which had been given her
Napoleon in his hour of peril.
Dragging herself wearily to the little but by the river, she knocked, and
waited. All was still, and, opening the door, she entered. Striking a
match, she found a candle, lighted it, and then began her search.
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