“I see with pleasure, daughter,” said Fontanon, “that you have pious sentiments; you have a sacred relic round your neck.” Madame Crochard, with a feeble vagueness which seemed to show that she had not all her wits about her, pulled out the Imperial Cross of the Legion of Honor. The priest started back at seeing the Emperor’s head; he went up to the penitent again, and she spoke to him, but in such a low tone that for some minutes Francoise could hear nothing. “Woe upon me!” cried the old woman suddenly. “Do not desert me. What, Monsieur l’Abbe, do you think I shall be called to account for my daughter’s soul?” The Abbe spoke too low, and the partition was too thick for Francoise to hear the reply. “Alas!” sobbed the woman, “the wretch has left me nothing that I can bequeath. When he robbed me of my dear Caroline, he parted us, and only allowed me three thousand francs a year, of which the capital belongs to my daughter.” “Madame has a daughter, and nothing to live on but an annuity,” shrieked Francoise, bursting into the drawing-room. The three old crones looked at each other in dismay. One of them, whose nose and chin nearly met with an expression that betrayed a superior type of hypocrisy and cunning, winked her eyes; and as soon as Francoise’s back was turned, she gave her friends a nod, as much as to say, “That slut is too knowing by half; her name has figured in three wills already.” So the three old dames sat on. However, the Abbe presently came out, and at a word from him the witches scuttered down the stairs at his heels, leaving Francoise alone with her mistress. Madame Crochard, whose sufferings increased in severity, rang, but in vain, for this woman, who only called out, “Coming, coming--in a minute!” The doors of cupboards and wardrobes were slamming as though Francoise were hunting high and low for a lost lottery ticket. Just as this crisis was at a climax, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille came to stand by her mother’s bed, lavishing tender words on her. “Oh my dear mother, how criminal I have been! You are ill, and I did not know it; my heart did not warn me. However, here I am--” “Caroline--” “What is it?” “They fetched a priest--” “But send for a doctor, bless me!” cried Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. “Francoise, a doctor! How is it that these ladies never sent for a doctor?” “They sent for a priest----” repeated the old woman with a gasp. “She is so ill--and no soothing draught, nothing on her table!” The mother made a vague sign, which Caroline’s watchful eye understood, for she was silent to let her mother speak. “They brought a priest--to hear my confession, as they said.--Beware, Caroline!” cried the old woman with an effort, “the priest made me tell him your benefactor’s name.” “But who can have told you, poor mother?” The old woman died, trying to look knowingly cunning. If Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille had noted her mother’s face she might have seen what no one ever will see--Death laughing.