"He will not die--no, no, he will not die, believe me. You are a little
nervous, that is all. Oh, he will not die; he has an excellent
constitution--Holy Virgin, what is that!"
It was M. Deshoulieres knocking sharply at the door. Madame Roulleau,
rigid and defiant again, opened it; the little notary shrank further
into the corner; the doctor entered hastily.
"Mademoiselle Therese?" he said, looking round. "Ah, madame, may I ask
you to request her to descend at once. I bring news, or, believe me, I
would not incommode you at such a time."
"What news, monsieur?" asked madame, still erect.
"Monsieur Saint-Martin has arrived."
Her head sank, she went out of the room and up the stairs slowly. There
was a tempest in her heart when she opened the door of the sick-room.
It was all very solemn and quiet, solemn with the foreshadowing of that
quietness which is infinite. The child lay on the little white bed,
Therese knelt by its side, the _persiennes_ were half closed, one
quivering ray of sunlight touched the girl's head, the sweet young face
was full of tender sorrow. For a moment she stood speechless, watching;
the next Therese heard a sharp keen voice in her ear:--
"Why do you look like that, you! He is mine, I will not have you take
away his love. And I have hated you and done you all the harm I could--
do you hear?"
"Hush, hush, madame," said Therese softly. She looked at her, and knew
that this woman in her strange excitement was speaking truth; at another
time she might have been angry at the confession, but for weeks past she
had been walking on the borders of that land where wrath and bitterness
are hushed. She lifted her hand and pointed to the little face on the
pillow. Madame dared not speak, she fell on her knees and trembled.
Therese gently drew back the _persiennes_; a sweet cool breeze came into
the room, the plains were all steeped in a kind of subdued sunshine,
silvery, and broken with clouds. There were long shadows on the roofs
and gables, birds singing in the gardens of the Eveche; presently the
murmur of a distant chant came swinging up from the Cathedral, where all
the windows were open. No service was going on, but the choristers were
practising a _requiem_, very sad and sweet, yet now and then breaking
into triumphant chorus. Therese fancied she caught the
words,--"_requiem, dona eis requiem_," shrill, clear, boyish voices
answering one another. Rest was very near one of the three in that
room. She touched madame, and said, "See, I think he knows us."
Yes. For the last time the dim eyes turned and looked into theirs,--for
the last time the little weak hand just moved as if to seek their clasp;
the little voice, so strangely pathetic in its hoarse unchildlike
accent, tried to reach Therese. For the last time. After that there
was peace--the peace echoed by the choristers in the Cathedral--the
peace that could never any more be broken. So best!