"It was a lie, Pamphile. You are my nephew, truly, the son of my sister Cécile. She was a fool, Cécile, and I could not abide her. Oh, we were two doves--Cécile and Celestine--two angels with downy wings. Your father? He also was a fool. What he could see in Cécile I could not guess. They went away without my blessing, you may be sure, and soon after he got himself drowned in the Gatineau. Oh, they were married with all regularity in the church, by a priest--Father Gibaut of Chateau Richer. No, you are no son of Michel Gamache, that traitor, that thief! Ah, if I had him here I would stab him to the heart, that he might be damned for ever, body and soul. I would go to Hell myself, to see him burn. A thousand devils take him, stick him on forks, tear his eyes out, his tongue, his liver, roast him in the fire! Ha, you damned one, squirm, wriggle, writhe in the fire that never shall be quenched--for ever, for ever, unto the ages of the ages! Ah, that is revenge, revenge at last--sweet, sweet!" Mère Tabeau was raving; and when she saw the picture of Annette Duval, serene and calm like a holy saint above an altar, she tore it from its place; spat upon it; stamped upon it; and then raged about the room like a wild beast, tearing and breaking, scratching and biting and foaming at the mouth; until at last she fell unconscious to the floor, and Pamphile carried her home. Toward evening Mère Tabeau recovered consciousness, and asked for the priest, knowing that she had but a little while to live. Father Paradis came in haste, carrying the _Bon Dieu_; while Pamphile, who drove, kept ringing the warning bell; whereat all who heard fell on their knees to pray for the departing soul. The priest remained with the dying woman for a long time, hearing her last confession, administering the holy wafer, anointing with the holy oil, and offering prayers of intercession until the last breath was expired, the heart had ceased to beat, and the soul had passed away from the mortal body. When Father Paradis came from the chamber of death there was upon his face an expression of ineffable peace, as of one in communion with the eternal world; and his eyes had the far-away look of one who gazes upon things unseen. Even Pamphile felt a sense of awe and mystery, and for some time drove on in silence. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he broke out suddenly: "She was a bad woman, Monsieur le curé." "What? What is that you say, Pamphile?" "She was a wicked old woman, and is now in Hell, no doubt." "Ah, Pamphile, how do I know? I am not her judge. She is in the hands of God." "Yes, Monsieur le curé, but if there is a mortal sin which she has not committed I do not know what it is. I understand that any one of these is enough to damn the soul. Is it not so?"