"'I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He has suffered like us; he has been ill, too--very ill; you may trust him now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you trust him?' "'Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the girl, weeping. "'Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white hand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie--the little locket?' "Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old man raised it toward his face. "'A little more light, dear Marie,' said he. "Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard. "'A little more--light, Marie,' said the old man, feebly. He was getting lower and lower. "Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust from the glass. "'Light, Marie; dear Marie--more light!' He said it scarce above his breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man. "'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs roused the old man for a moment. "'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie--God bless you!' "I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck. "Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man--they must have looked strangely to her. "'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked very--very loud. "The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah, _mon ami_, if you had heard her cry, '_Mon Dieu! il est mort!_--_il est mort!_'" For a moment the abbe could not go on. "She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!" The garcon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbe had not touched his wine--nor had I. "He was buried," resumed the abbe, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, '_a mon pere_, 1845.' "I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn." "You saw mademoiselle?"