FIVE O'CLOCK P.M.

The old priest whom I have often met at the chateau has been sent for in
haste. He is a friend of Madame de Malouet, a simple old man, full of
charity; I dared not question him. I know not what is going on. I fear to
hear, and yet my ear catches eagerly the least noises, the most
insignificant sounds; a closing door, a rapid step on the stairs strikes
me dumb with terror. And yet--so quick! it seems impossible!

* * * * *

Paul, my friend--my brother! where are you?--all is over!

An hour ago I saw the doctor and the priest coming down. Monsieur de
Malouet was following them.

"Go up," he told me. "Come, courage, sir. Be a man!" I walked into the
cell; Madame de Malouet had remained alone there; she was kneeling by the
bedside and beckoned me to approach. I gazed upon her who was about to
cease suffering. A few hours had been enough to stamp upon that lovely
face all the ravages of death; but life and thought still lingered in her
eyes; she recognized me at once.

"Monsieur," she began; then, after a pause: "George, I have loved you
much. Forgive my having embittered your life with the memory of this
sad incident!"

I fell on my knees; I tried to speak, I could not; my tears flowed hot and
fast upon her hand already cold and inert as a piece of marble.