laimed she, "will nothing then restrain you?"

"What is he about, then?" said the doctor.

"See, see! he sits in front of a table covered with money. The wheel
turns. The people who look after it do so with haggard eyes. How pale
and withered they are! See how he throws the money on the table. Poor
Henri--how he suffers! His brow is frozen. How horribly pale he is! He
beats his breast. See that pale and pitiless man sweeping away all the
money! Ah!" said she, "he quivers--he seems about to faint--no, he takes
out his pocket-book, and throws other notes on the table. The wheel
turns again. My God, have pity on him! Lost, lost again! He endures
torments worse than death. Henri! for mercy's sake, stop--remember your
wife--your Aminta--"

Her sobs increased, and inarticulate sounds burst from her chest. The
Prince listened with increasing agitation to the heart-rending words of
Aminta. His eyes wandered, troubled and uncertain, between the Marquise
and the doctor. His eyes became cold, his cheeks livid, and from time to
time the noble and venerable old man seemed to bend beneath another half
century. All the others, sad and terrified, seemed fascinated by this
terrible drama.

"He has in his hand his last notes," said Aminta--"he places them before
him. Silence! hark, there is a confused noise. The wheel again makes its
odious circle. It stops--Henri advances to take them. No, no, they are
not his. The man seizes them, and takes possession of this. What does he
say?" continued she, with attention--"ruined! ruined! he says. Well,
what matter? it is only gold--only gold that he has lost. Dear Henri,"
said she, in a beseeching air, as if she knelt before him--"husband,
what is the value of your money, if you love me? Listen to me. Do not
weep, for your tears will kill me. Come to me--I forgive you. I will not
reproach you, and you will not leave me again--never, never, never. He
repels and avoids me. Whither does he go? What a desert! what an
isolated street! How dark it is!--let us follow him, and not desert him.
What do I see at the end of this street?" She looked through her hands,
as if to enable her to see further. "What long black cloth is that? What
pall is that? Henri does not walk--but I cannot follow him," said she,
in a heart-rending voice. "Listen to me, Henri, I am suffering--I have
walked so far and am so overcome. I do not see him--he is gone! he draws
near the pall. My God! is there not a mourning-cloth pain