One night Mademoiselle awoke with a start. She thought she was being called, and listened intently. A little light came through the grated window—moonlight, but sallow, and impure, as if the rays were infected by the heaviness of the atmosphere. It served, however, to show the heavy immobility of Marie Kérac’s form as she lay, emitting unmistakable snores, the baby caught in her left arm and sleeping too. A dingy beam fell right across Mme Renard’s face. It had been pretty enough, in a round dimpled way, but now it looked heavy and leaden, showing lines of fretful fear, even in sleep. Out of the darkness in the corner there came a long-drawn sigh, and then a very low voice just breathed the words, "Mademoiselle de Rochambeau, are you awake?" Aline sat up. "Is it you, Madame de Coigny?" she asked, a little startled, for both sigh and voice had a vague unearthliness that seemed to make the night darker. The Bretonne’s honest breathing was a reassuring sound. "Yes!" said the low voice. "Are you ill—can I do anything for you?" There was a rustling movement and a dim shape emerged from the shadow. "If I might lie down beside you for a while. The little one went so peacefully to sleep with that good soul, that I had not the heart to take her back, and it is lonely—mon Dieu, it is lonely!" Aline made room on the straw pallet, and put an arm round the cold, shrinking figure. "Why, you are chilled," she said gently, "and the night is quite warm." "To-morrow I shall be colder," said Mme de Coigny in a strange whisper. "My dear, what do you mean?" Something like a shiver made the straw rustle. "I am not afraid. It is only that I cannot get warm"; then turning her face to Aline she whispered, "they will come for me to-morrow." "No, no; why should you think so? How can you know?" "Ah, I know—I know quite well—and I am glad, really. I should have been glad to die before the little one came, for then she would have been safe too. Now she has this business of life before her, and, see you, I find life too sad, at all events for us women." "Life is not always sad," said Aline soothingly. "Mine has been sad," said Mme de Coigny. "May I talk to you a little? We are of the same age, and to-night—to-night I feel so strange, as if I were quite alone in some great empty place." "Yes, talk to me, and I will put my arms round you. There! Now you will be warmer." Another shiver shook the bed, and then the low voice began again. "I wanted to be a nun, you know. When I was a child they called me the little nun, and always I said I would be one. Then when I was eighteen, my elder sister died, and I was an heiress, and they married me to M. de Coigny." "Did you not want to marry him?"