The chemist says nothing, but the contrast between the placid face
of the old scientist, intent only upon his work, and the wildly
passionate countenance of the little woman with him, is sufficiently
impressive. Those were the days when murder was a fine art. She
plans the public death of the woman she hates so that the lover will
never be able to forget the dying face. Radiant in queenly beauty,
with the smile of satisfaction that accompanies the inner assurance
of beauty and power--in a moment she will be convulsively rolling on
the floor, her swollen face purplish-black with the poison, her
mouth emitting foam like a mad dog. There is no doubt that the
little murderess intends to follow her rival to the tomb. She has
given the chemist her entire fortune as pay for the drop of poison;
he may kiss her, if he likes! All shame, all womanly reserve are gone:
what does anything matter now? It is a true study of jealousy,
because the little creature does not dream of attacking the _man_
who deserted her; all her hellish energy is directed against the
woman.
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