So the three old dames sat on.

However, the Abbe presently came out, and at a word from him the
witches scuttered down the stairs at his heels, leaving Francoise
alone with her mistress. Madame Crochard, whose sufferings increased
in severity, rang, but in vain, for this woman, who only called out,
"Coming, coming--in a minute!" The doors of cupboards and wardrobes
were slamming as though Francoise were hunting high and low for a lost
lottery ticket.

Just as this crisis was at a climax, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille came
to stand by her mother's bed, lavishing tender words on her.

"Oh my dear mother, how criminal I have been! You are ill, and I did
not know it; my heart did not warn me. However, here I am--"

"Caroline--"

"What is it?"

"They fetched a priest--"

"But send for a doctor, bless me!" cried Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille.
"Francoise, a doctor! How is it that these ladies never sent for a
doctor?"

"They sent for a priest----" repeated the old woman with a gasp.

"She is so ill--and no soothing draught, nothing on her table!"