but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires--pale as ashes with great
wrath, her purple eyes on fire, and her whole panther-like body full
of spring. "Wretch! you dare to insult her, and before me! Arriere
miserable! or I soil my hand with your face." And her hand was up with
the word, up, up, higher it seemed than ever a hand was raised before.
And if he had hesitated one moment, I really believe it would have come
down; not heavily, perhaps--the lightning is not heavy. But there was
no need. The towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush
buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled. She followed him as he went,
strong, FOR A MOMENT OR TWO, as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as
Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or could not stand before her: he
writhed and cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she marched
upon him. But the driven serpent hissed horribly as it wriggled away.

"You shall both be turned out of Beaurepaire by me, and forever; I swear
it, parole de Perrin."

He had not been gone a minute when Josephine's courage oozed away,
and she ran, or rather tottered, into the Pleasaunce, and clung like a
drowning thing to Rose, and, when Edouard took her hand, she clung to
him. They had to gather what had happened how they could: the account
was constantly interrupted with her sobs and self-reproaches. She said
she had ruined all she loved: ruined her sister, ruined her mother,
ruined the house of Beaurepaire. Why was she ever born? Why had she
not died three years ago? (Query, what was the date at which Camille's
letters suddenly stopped?) "That coward," said she, "has the heart of a
fiend. He told us he never forgave an affront; and he holds our fate
in his hands. He will drive our mother from her home, and she will die:
murdered by her own daughter. After all, why did I refuse him? What
should I have sacrificed by marrying him? Rose, write to him, and