this door; had you not opened it, I should have expired upon the spot, for I was so much terrified, that it appeared to me,”--then suddenly pausing, Marguerite trembled, and whispered to Paul, “Silence! do you not hear?” “Yes,” replied Paul, instantly extinguishing the lamp, “yes, yes--footsteps--I hear them also.” “Look! look!” cried Marguerite, concealing herself behind the curtain of the window, and throwing them around Paul at the same moment--“look! I was not mistaken--it was my mother.” The door had been opened, and the marchioness, pale as a spectre, entered the room slowly, closed the door after her, and locked it, and then without observing Paul and Marguerite, went into the second room where Achard was lying. She then walked up to his bed, as she had only a short time before to that of the marquis, only that she was not now accompanied by a priest. “Who is there?” said Achard, drawing back one of the curtains of his bed. “It is I,” replied the marchioness, drawing back the other curtain. “You, madam,” cried the old man with terror; “for what purpose have you come to the bedside of a dying man?” “I have come to make a proposal to him.” “One that will lose his soul! is it not?” “To save it, on the contrary. There is only one thing in this world, Achard, of which you stand in need,” rejoined the marchioness, bending down over the bed of the dying man, “and that is a priest.” “You refused to allow the one who is attached to the castle to attend me.” “In five minutes, if you wish it, he shall be here.” “Let him be sent then,” said the old man, “and believe me there is not a moment to be lost. He must come quickly.” “But if I give you the peace of heaven, you will give me in exchange peace on earth.” “What can I do for you?” murmured the dying man, closing his eyes, that he might not see a woman whose looks chilled him. “You stand in need of a priest, that you may die in peace,” said the marchioness, “you know the gift I require, in order to exist in tranquillity.” “You would close heaven to me by a perjury.” “I would open it to you by a pardon.” “That pardon I have already received.” “And from whom?--” “From him who, perhaps, had alone the right to grant it to me.” “Has Morlaix then descended from heaven?” asked the marchioness, in a tone in which there was almost as much terror as irony. “No, madam,” replied he, “but have you forgotten that he left a son upon this earth?” “Then you have also seen him,” exclaimed the marchioness. “Yes,” replied Achard. “And you have told him all----” “All!” “And the papers which prove his birth?” asked the marchioness, with trembling anxiety. “The marquis was not dead--the papers are still there.” “Achard!” cried the marchioness, falling upon her knees, by the bedside. “Achard! you will take pity on me?” “You, on your knees, before me, madam?”