"I have Louise, but she—really, I forget where she is at present, but she is not cooking, for we have nothing to cook. It is as well that I have come here to die, since for that there are always conveniences. One dies more comfortably chez soi. In fact, unless one had the honour of dying on the field of battle, there is to my mind something bourgeois about dying in a strange place. At least, it has never been our habit. Now I recollect when Réné was dying—dear me, how many years ago it is now?" "It is thirty-seven years ago," said Ange Desaix in low muffled tones. "Thank you, Mademoiselle, you are quite correct. Well, thirty-seven years ago, you, with that excellent memory of yours, will recall how I brought my son Réné here, that he might die at home." "Yes," said Ange. "You brought him home that he might die." The slight change of words was an accusation, and there was a moment’s silence, broken by an almost inaudible whisper from Mlle Ange. "Thirty-seven years. Oh, mon Dieu!" The tremulous grey head moved a little, bent forward, and was propped by a shaking hand, but Madame’s eyes shone unalterably amused. "Yes, my dear Ange, he died—unmarried; and I had the consolations of religion, and also of knowing that a mésalliance is not possible in the grave." Ange Desaix started forward with a sob. "And have you never repented, Madame, have you never repented? Never thought that you might have had his children about your knees? That night, when I saw him die, I said, ’God will punish,’ and are you not punished? You have neither son nor grandson; you are childless as I am childless; you are alone and the last of your line!" The sudden fire transfigured her, and she looked like a prophetess. Madame de Montenay stared at her and fell to fidgeting with her shawl. "I am too old for scenes," she said fretfully. "Réné was a fool—a fool. I never interfered with his amusements, but marriage—that is not an affair for oneself alone. Did he think I should permit? But it is enough, he is dead, and I think you forget yourself, Ange Desaix, when you come to my house and talk to me in such a strain. I should like to be alone." The old imperious note swelled the thin voice; the old imperious gesture raised the trembling hand. Even in her recoil Aline felt a faint thrill of admiration as for something indomitable, indestructible. Ange swept through the door. "Ah!" she said with a long shuddering breath, "ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" All her beautiful dreamy expression was gone. "Ah! what a coward I am; even now, even now she frightens me, cows me," and she leaned panting against the wall, whilst Aline closed the door. Out of the darkness Marguerite came trembling. "Aline, what is it?" she whispered. "I heard you, and came as far as the door, and then, Holy Virgin, is n’t she terrible? She makes me cold like ice, and her laugh, it ’s—oh, one does not know how to bear it!" Mlle Ange turned, collecting herself. "Is it Louise?" she asked.