Locusta.

           Valentinewasalone;twootherclocks,slowerthanthatofSaint–PhilippeduRoule,struckthehourofmidnightfromdifferentdirections,andexceptingtherumblingofafewcarriagesallwassilent.ThenValentine’sattentionwasengrossedbytheclockinherroom,whichmarkedtheseconds.Shebegancountingthem,remarkingthattheyweremuchslowerthanthebeatingsofherheart;andstillshedoubted—theinoffensiveValentinecouldnotimaginethatanyoneshoulddesireherdeath.Whyshouldthey?Towhatend?Whathadshedonetoexcitethemaliceofanenemy?Therewasnofearofherfallingasleep.Oneterribleideapresseduponhermind—thatsomeoneexistedintheworldwhohadattemptedtoassassinateher,andwhowasabouttoendeavortodosoagain.Supposingthisperson,weariedattheinefficacyofthepoison,should,asMonteCristointimated,haverecoursetosteel!—Whatifthecountshouldhavenotimetoruntoherrescue!—Whatifherlastmomentswereapproaching,andsheshouldneveragainseeMorrel!Whenthisterriblechainofideaspresenteditself,Valentinewasnearlypersuadedtoringthebell,andcallforhelp.Butthroughthedoorshefanciedshesawtheluminouseyeofthecount—thateyewhichlivedinhermemory,andtherecollectionoverwhelmedherwithsomuchshamethatsheaskedherselfwhetheranyamountofgratitudecouldeverrepayhisadventurousanddevotedfriendship.

           Twentyminutes,twentytediousminutes,passedthus,thentenmore,andatlasttheclockstruckthehalf-hour.

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