"Mon Dieu, Madame Aline!" she said afterwards, "when he came to the apple loft he seemed to know something. There he stood, not speaking, but just staring at me, like a dog at a rat-hole. I tell you, I thanked Saint Perpetua, whose day it was, that the rats were away!" In the end he went away, frowning, and swearing a little to himself, and quiet days set in. No news was good news, and no news came; presently Aline stopped being terrified at every meeting with the inn-keeper, or the curé, and then Mlle Marthe became so ill that all interests centred in her sick-room. Her malady, which had remained stationary for so long, began to gain ground quickly, and nights and days of agony consumed her strength, and made even the sister to whom she was everything look upon Death as the Angel not of the Sword, but of Peace. One day the pain ebbed with the light, and at sunset she was more comfortable than she had been for a long while. Aline persuaded Mlle Ange to go and lie down for a little, and she and Marthe were alone. "The day is a long time going," said Marthe after a silence of some minutes. "Yes, the days are lengthening." "And mine are shortening,—only I ’m an unreasonable time over my dying. It’s a trial to me, for I liked to do things quickly. I suppose no one has ever known what it has been to me to see Jeanne pottering about her work, or Ange moving a chair, or a book, in her slow, deliberate way; and now that it’s come to my turn I ’m having my revenge, and inflicting the same kind of annoyance on you." She spoke in a quick, toneless voice, that sounded very feeble,—almost as if the life going from her had left it behind as a stranded wreck of sound. Aline turned with a sob. "Heavens, child! did you think I did n’t know I was going, or that I expected you to cry over me? You ’ve been a butt for my sharp tongue too often to be heart-broken when there ’s a chance of your being left in peace." "Oh, don’t!" said Aline, choking; and something in voice and face brought a queer look to the black, mocking eyes. "What, you really care a little? My dear, it’s too amiable of you. Why, Aline,"—as the girl buried her face in her hands,—"why, Aline!" There was a pause, and then the weak voice went on again: "If you do care at all—if I mean anything at all in your life—then I will ask you one thing. What are you doing to Jacques?" "Was that why you hated me?" said Aline quickly. "Oh, hate? Well, I never hated you, but—Yes, that was it. He and Ange are the two things I ’ve had to love, and though I don’t suppose he thinks about me twice a year, still his happiness means more to me than it does—well, to you." "Oh, that’s not true!" cried Aline on a quick breath. Marthe Desaix looked sharply at her. "Aline," she said, "how long are you going to break his heart and your own?" "I don’t know," whispered the girl. "There’s so much between us. Too much for honour."