a0555.PDF by HorrorMaster

Author:HorrorMaster [HorrorMaster]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Horror Story
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Now for a break from the story. Where do you think that this came from? Another site, that's where. Sorry if you find this annoying, but you might want to find a site that does the work instead of stealing someone else's work.

‘Yes, monsieur!’ she only answered, in a trembling voice, holding on to her crucifix. Then she said in a professional tone—‘Will monsieur let me bind up his wrist?’ And though her fingers trembled and his hand was shaking, the bandage was an irreproachable one.

Magnin went into the next room, and I heard him throw himself heavily into a chair. Detaille seemed to be sleeping. His breath came regularly; his eyes were closed with a look of peace about the lids, his hands lying in a natural way upon the quilt. He had not moved since we laid him there. I went softly to where Magnin was sitting in the dark. He did not move, but only said:

‘Marcello is dead!’

‘He is either dead or dying,’ I answered, ‘and we must go to him.’

‘Yes,’ Magnin whispered, ‘we must go to him, but we shall not reach him.’

We will go as soon as it is light,’ I said, and then we were still again.

When the morning came at last he went and found a comrade to cake his place, and only said to Sœur Marie, it is not necessary to speak of this night;’ and at her quiet, ‘You are right, monsieur,’ we felt we could trust her. Detaille was still sleeping. Was this the crisis the doctor had expected? Perhaps; but surely not in such fearful form. I insisted upon my companion having some breakfast before we started, and I breakfasted myself, but 1 cannot say I tasted what passed between my lips.

We engaged a closed carriage, for we did not know what we might bring home with us, though neither of us spoke out his thoughts. It was early morning still when we reached the Vigna Marziali, and we had not exchanged a word all the way. I rang at the bell, while the coachman looked on curiously. It was answered promptly by the guardiano, of whom Detaille has already told you.

‘Where is the Signore?’ I asked through the gate.

‘Chi lo sa?’ he answered. ‘He is here, of course; he has not left the Vigna. Shall I call him?’

‘ Call him?’ I knew that no mortal voice could reach Marcello now, but 1 tried to fancy he was still alive.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Let us in. We want to surprise him; he will be pleased.’

The man hesitated, but he finally opened the gate, and we entered, leaving the carriage to wait outside. We went straight to the house; the door at the back was wide open. There had been a gale in the night, and it had torn sonic leaves and bits of twigs from the trees and blown them into the entrance hall. They lay scattered across the threshold, and were evidence that the door had remained open ever since they had fallen.

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