He received no answer. Just at that moment the doctor was not thinking about the young lady, except as she was connected with the dying man. He strode hastily up the stairs, through an atmosphere yet heavy and sweet with its lingering cloud of incense, and into the room where M. Moreau was doing battle with the last enemy he would have to contend with. A girl stood by the side of the bed, looking down on the dread struggle with pitiful eyes. Except now and then moistening the poor parched lips or smoothing the tumbled pillow, there was nothing for her to do but watch all apparent consciousness was at an end; not the smallest sign of recognition greeted the doctor. He also stood watching for a few minutes before he turned to the girl and asked quietly,

"How long is it since this change came on, mademoiselle?"

"About a quarter of an hour. I think he hardly heard Monsieur le Curé's last words," she added, slowly, under her breath. Her voice trembled; that quarter of an hour had seemed very terrible indeed to poor Thérèse. The sunlight, it is true, was streaming in at the window, but, in spite of it, the room looked dark and funereal: there was a heavy paper on the walls; stiff, solid furniture; in one corner a huge black stove reared itself grimly towards the ceiling.

The women of the house would have willingly remained with her, but that the old man was impatient of their presence; and almost his last word had been a peremptory "Go!" still fierce enough to frighten them. It was not likely, or even possible, that the consciousness of any person's presence would return, as M. Deshouliéres perceived immediately. He took the little notary to the door and told him so in a few words.

"There is no possible use in your waiting, M. Ignace, I regret to say," he began. "I was a fool, and have nothing to do but to abide by the consequences. Nothing will ever What is the matter?

noticing his pale face.

be changed now.

are you ill?" he went on,

"For the moment only for the moment, M. Deshouliéres," answered the little man, with a quaver"It is so horrible, you know, to see him Will-will it be soon?"

ing voice.

like that.

"I do not know. It is what we must all come

to," said the doctor sternly.

He shut the door at

once and went back to the bedside. "That man is a veritable coward," he said half aloud, so that Thérèse might have heard the words if she had not at that moment been busied with a vain attempt to soothe the increasing restlessness of the dying man. Those two, and old Nannon, who came in after a while of

her own accord, watched together silently. It was all at an end before morning, as the doctor had foretold. When the grey dawn broke over the old weirdlooking houses, with the young sycamore trees standing sentinel-wise before them; when it touched the beautiful stern lines of the Cathedral, and delicate carving blossomed into distinctness, and light stole into the shadowy depths, and the little lamp before the altar burned yellow, and the jackdaws woke up screaming and busy, Monsieur Moreau lay with a quiet look upon his rugged features to which they had long been strangers, until it seemed to the watchers as if the day, which was bringing youth to all the earth, had brought it back to him, and fixed it on his face for ever.

(27)

CHAPTER III.

"Les vertus se perdent dans l'intérêt comme les fleuves se perdent dans la mer."

MADEMOISELLE VEUILLOT and M. Deshouliéres stood by the bedside silent. Noticing her a little curiously at last, he fancied there was more awe than grief in her countenance; it was, indeed, white and troubled; but there had been enough in the night's vigil to account for that. As she stood looking sadly down, her hands knitted together, and the morning light full on her face, he for the first time remarked its features, the grey eyes with long lashes, a mouth delicately lined, a round forehead, neither straight nor classical, but full of a certain sweet nobility, with waved brown hair lying softly and lightly upon it. He looked at her with a half-pitying, half-uneasy sense of guardianship springing up. She was SO girlish, so fragile, so dependent. "What am I to do with her!" thought M. Deshouliéres despairingly.

Aloud he said, so abruptly that she started at the words,

"You have been very much tried, mademoiselle. Let me urge you to go and lie down, without delay."

Old Nannon came round from the foot of the bed. Thérèse hesitated, half turned to the door, then back again towards the motionless figure. At such a time the first departure seems almost a cruelty to the dead. M. Deshouliéres, seeing her hesitation, laid his hand on her arm. "Come," he said decidedly.

He led her into the adjoining salon, and closed the door of communication, but instead of leaving him, as he anticipated, she walked to the window and looked out at the fresh sweet morning, at the lights that were flooding the yellow stone of the Cathedral. It was all very solemn and tranquil as yet, although the town was just wakening to life. There was nothing harsh, nothing that seemed to jar upon the quiet repose of the figure that indeed should never more be vexed by earth's discordant din. Thérèse stayed there, and looked out for some minutes. It is most likely that she was gaining courage to speak, for when she at length turned round her voice was a little tremulous.

"Before I go, will you, who have been so good and kind a friend to us, tell me whether my poor uncle spoke of-of Fabien, his nephew?"

"M. Fabien Saint-Martin? But certainly, certainly.