Mlle Marthe was too weak for anger, but she raised her eyebrows in the old sarcastic way. "Poor man," she said, "he needs absolution a great deal more than I do. He thinks he has sold his soul, and can’t even enjoy the price of it. After all, those are the people to pity—the ones who have courage for neither good nor evil." She lay silent for a long while then, and watched the sunset colours burn to flame, and fade to cold ash-grey. Suddenly Aline said: "Ma tante." "Well?" "Ma tante, do you think he loves me still?" "Why should he?" The girl took her breath sharply, and Mlle Marthe moved her head with an impatient jerk. "There, there, I ’m too near my end to lie. Jacques is like his mother, he has n’t the talent of forgetfulness." "He looked so hard when he went away." "Little fool, if he had smiled he would have forgotten easily enough." Aline turned her head aside. "Listen to me," said Mlle Marthe insistently. "What kind of a man do you take your husband to be, good or bad?" "Oh, he is good—don’t I know that! What would have become of me if he had been a bad man?" said the girl in a tense whisper. "Then would you not have him follow his conscience? In all that is between you has he not acted as a man should do? Would you have him do what is right in your eyes and not in his own; follow your lead, take the law from you? Do you, or does any woman, desire a husband like that?" Aline did not answer, only stared out of the window. She was recalling the King’s death, Dangeau’s vote, and her passion of loyalty and pain. It seemed to her now a thing incredibly old and far away, like a tale read of in history a hundred years ago. Something seemed to touch her heart and shrivel it, as she wondered if in years to come she would look back as remotely upon the love, and longing, which rent her now. There was a long, long silence, and in the end Mlle Marthe dozed a little. When Ange came in, she found her lying easily, and so free from pain that she took heart and was quite cheerful over the little sick-room offices. But at midnight there was a change,—a greyness of face, a labouring of failing lungs,—and with the dawn she sighed heavily once or twice and died, leaving the white house a house of mourning. Mlle Ange took the blow quietly, too quietly to satisfy Aline, who would rather have seen her weep. Her cold, dreamy composure was somehow very alarming, and the few tears she shed on the day they buried Marthe in the little windy graveyard were dried almost as they fell. After that she took up all her daily tasks at once, but went about them abstractedly. Even the children could not make her smile, or a visit to the grave draw tears. The sad monotony of grief settled down upon the household, the days were heavy, work without zest, and a wet April splashed the window-panes with torrents of warm, unceasing rain. CHAPTER XXVII BETRAYAL