The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway.
"Ah," said he, "here we are, at the last act of the tragedy.

You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named; but be easy, no blood will flow." Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an immediate and terrible proof of her courage.
"You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!" Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward her.

He was too late; Milady had stabbed herself.
But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a cuirass, defended the chests of women.

It had glided down it, tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs.

Milady's robe was not the less stained with blood in a second.
Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon.
Felton snatched away the knife.
"See, my Lord," said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, "here is a woman who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!" "Be at ease, Felton," said Lord de Winter.