I had remained seated upon the edge of the bed, shaken myself by the torture of the dying girl. I had not dared to stir, nailed to my place by pity and fright. What I had before me was so profoundly horrible and so infinitely touching, so lamentable and so repulsive, that I know not how to explain the holy fear which held me where I was, grieved, full of disgust and compassion. I was tempted to beat Pâquerette, to drive her away; I felt inclined to embrace Marie as a brother would embrace his sister, to give her my blood to restore life and freshness to her expiring flesh. So I had reached this point: a miserable old woman, whose career had been one long dissipation, offered me the opportunity to exchange my heart for another heart, to give up my sweetheart to one of my friends and thus secure his of him; she showed me all the advantages of this bargain, she laughed at the excellent joke. And the sweetheart whom she wished to give me already belonged to death. Marie was dying, and Marie extended her arms to me. Poor innocent! her strange purity hid from her all the horror of her kiss. She offered her lips like a child, not understanding that I would rather have died than touch her mouth, I, who loved Laurence so much! Her pale flesh, burned by fever, had been purified by suffering; but she was already dead, so to speak, sanctified, and so pure that I would have deemed it sacrilegious to reawaken in her a final quiver of earthly delight. Pâquerette curiously watched Marie's crisis. That woman does not believe in the sufferings of others. "Something she ate choked her," she said, forgetting that the sick girl had swallowed no solid food for two weeks. At these words, a blind rage took possession of me. I felt like slapping that yellow, sneering face, and, as the wretched creature opened her lips again: "Be quiet, will you!" I cried out to her, in a ringing and indignant voice. The old woman drew back her arm-chair in terror. She stared at me, full of fear and indecision; then, seeing that I was in earnest, she made a gesture such as a drunken man might make and stammered, in a drawling tone: "Then, if joking is prohibited, why don't you say so in plain words? As for me, I always have a joke upon my lips, and so much the worse for those who weep say I! You don't want Marie; very well, let us say no more about it." And she pushed the arm-chair before the table; then, she poured out a glass of wine, which she sipped slowly. I bent over Marie, whom suffering had put to sleep. There was a low rattle in her throat. I kissed her on the forehead like a brother. As I was about going away, Pâquerette turned towards me. "Monsieur Claude," she cried, "you are not amiable, but, nevertheless, I will give you a piece of good advice. If you love Laurence, keep a sharp eye upon her!" CHAPTER XXII THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL I am jealous--jealous of Laurence!