He put a pillow under the head,
which fell on it grotesquely and lay sideways, still smiling horribly at
nothing. Then he poured out a glass of brandy and strove to force some
of it between Valentine's teeth, dashed water in the glaring eyes, beat
the air with a fan which he tore from the mantelpiece. All was in vain.
There came no sign of returning life. Then Julian caught Valentine's
hands in his and sought to unclench the rigid, cold fingers. He laid
his hand on the heart of his friend. No pulsation beat beneath his
anxious touch. Then a great horror overtook him. Suddenly he felt a
conviction that Valentine had died beside him in the dark, had died
sitting up in his chair by the table. The cry he had heard, so thin, so
strange and piercing, the attenuated flame that he had seen, were the
voice and the vision of the flying soul which he had loved, seeking its
final freedom, _en route_ to the distant spheres believers dream of and
sceptics deny.
"Valentine! Valentine!" he cried again, with the desperate insistence of
the hopeless. But the cold, staring creature upon the green divan did not
reply. With a brusque and fearful movement Julian shut the eyelids. Would
they ever open again? He knelt upon the floor, leaning passionately over
his friend, or that which had been his friend.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121