To his great astonishment he felt a paper, which he drew out. It was a sealed letter; on it were written these words: "For Roland, who will come to-morrow."
He went over to the night-light in order to read the letter, which was dated the night before at eleven o'clock in the evening.
My brother, we have each a terrible thing to forgive the other.
Roland looked at his sister; she was still motionless. He continued to read:
I loved Charles de Sainte-Hermine; I did more than love him, he was my lover.
"Oh!" muttered the young man between his teeth, "he shall die."
"He is dead," said Amelie.
The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words to which Amelie had replied too low even to hear them himself. His eyes went back to the letter.
There was no legal marriage possible between the sister of Roland de Montrevel and the leader of the Companions of Jehu: that was the terrible secret which I bore--and it crushed me.
One person alone had to know it, and I told him; that person was Sir John Tanlay.
May God forever bless that noble-hearted man, who promised to break off an impossible marriage, and who kept his word. Let his life be sacred to you, Roland; he has been my only friend in sorrow, and his tears have mingled with mine.
I loved Charles de Saint-Hermine; I was his mistress; that is the terrible thing you must forgive.
But, in exchange, you caused his death; that is the terrible thing I now forgive you.
Oh I come fast, Roland, for I cannot die till you are here.
To die is to see him again; to die is to be with him and never to leave him again. I am glad to die.
All was clearly and plainly written; there was no sign of delirium in the letter.
Roland read it through twice, and stood for an instant silent, motionless, palpitating, full of bitterness; then pity got the better of his anger. He went to Amelie, stretched his hand over her, and said: "Sister, I forgive you."
A slight quiver shook the dying body.
"And now," she said, "call my mother, that I may die in her arms."
Roland opened the door and called Madame de Montrevel. She was waiting and came at once.
"Is there any change?" she asked, eagerly.
"No," replied Roland, "only Amelie wishes to die in your arms."
Madame de Montrevel fell upon her knees beside her daughter's bed.
Then Amelie, as though an invisible hand had loosened the bonds that held her rigid body to the bed, rose slowly, parted the hands that were clasped upon her breast, and let one fall slowly into those of her mother.
"Mother," she said, "you gave me life and you have taken it from me; I bless you. It was a mother's act. There was no happiness possible for your daughter in this life."
Then, letting her other hand fall into that of Roland, who was kneeling on the other side of the bed, she said: "We have forgiven each other, brother?"
"Yes, dear Amelie," he replied, "and from the depths of our hearts, I hope."
"I have still one last request to make."
"What is it?"
"Do not forget that Lord Tanlay has been my best friend."
"Fear nothing," said Roland; "Lord Tanlay's life is sacred to me."
Amelie drew a long breath; then in a voice which showed her growing weakness, she said: "Farewell, mother; farewell, Roland; kiss Edouard for me."
Then with a cry from her soul, in which there was more of joy than sadness, she said: "Here I am, Charles, here I am!"
She fell back upon her bed, withdrawing her two hands as she did so, and clasping them upon her breast again.
Roland and his mother rose and leaned over her. She had resumed her first position, except that her eyelids were closed and her breath extinguished. Amelie's martyrdom was over, she was dead.
CHAPTER LV. INVULNERABLE
Amelie died during the night of Monday and Tuesday, that is to say, the 2d and 3d of June. On the evening of Thursday, the 5th of June, the Grand Opera at Paris was crowded for the second presentation of "Ossian, or the Bards."
The great admiration which the First Consul professed for the poems of Macpherson was universally known; consequently the National Academy, as much in flattery as from literary choice, had brought out an opera, which, in spite of all exertions, did not appear until a month after General Bonaparte had left Paris to join the Army of the Reserves.
In the balcony to the left sat a lover of music who was noticeable for the deep attention he paid to the performance. During the interval between the acts, the door-keeper came to him and said in a low voice:
"Pardon me, sir, are you Sir John Tanlay?"
"I am."
"In that case, my lord, a gentleman has a message to give you; he says it is of the utmost importance, and asks if you will speak to him in the corridor."
"Oh!" said Sir John, "is he an officer?"
"He is in civilian's dress, but he looks like an officer."
"Very good," replied Sir John; "I know who he is."
He rose and followed the woman. Roland was waiting in the corridor. Lord Tanlay showed no surprise on seeing him, but the stern look on the young man's face repressed the first impulse of his deep affection, which was to fling himself upon his friend's breast.
"Here I am, sir," said Sir John.
Roland bowed.