But there was no answer.

"Silencieux! Have you ceased to love me? Is the dream once more at an
end, the magic faded? Oh, speak--tell me--anything--only speak!" But
still Silencieux neither spoke nor smiled.

"Listen, Silencieux," at last cried Antony, beside himself, "unless you
answer me, I will die this night, and my blood shall be upon your cruel
altar for ever."

As he spoke he snatched a dagger from among some bibelots on his mantel,
and drew it from its sheath.

"You are proud of your martyrs," he laughed; "see, I will bleed to death
for your sake. In God's name speak."

But Silencieux spoke nothing at all.

Then Beatrice, watching in terror, seeing by his face that he would
really kill himself, ran round to the door and broke in, crying, "O my
poor Antony!" but already he had plunged the dagger amid the veins of
his left wrist, and was watching the blood gush out with a strange
delight.

As Beatrice burst in, he looked up at her, and mistook her for
Silencieux.

"Ah!" he said, "you speak at last. You love me now, when it is too
late--when I am dying."