Madame de Malouet has just arrived with her husband. I had judged her rightly! Her voice and her words were those of a mother. She had taken care to bring her physician. The patient is lying in a comfortable bed, surrounded by loving and attentive friends. I feel more easy, although she has just awakened with a fearful delirium. Madame de Pontbrian has positively refused to come to her niece. I had judged her rightly too, the excellent Christian! I have deemed it my duty not to set foot again in the cell which Madame de Malouet no longer leaves. The expression of M. de Malouet's countenance terrifies me, and yet he assures me that the physician has not yet pronounced. * * * * * The doctor has just come out; I have spoken to him. "It is pneumonia," he told me, "complicated with brain fever." "It is very serious, is it not?" "Very serious." "But is there any immediate danger?" "I'll tell you that to-night. Her condition is so acute that it cannot last long. Either the crisis must abate or nature must yield." He looked up to heaven and went off. I know not what is going on within me, my friend--all these blows are striking me in such rapid succession. It is the lightning! FIVE O'CLOCK P.M. The old priest whom I have often met at the chateau has been sent for in haste. He is a friend of Madame de Malouet, a simple old man, full of charity; I dared not question him. I know not what is going on. I fear to hear, and yet my ear catches eagerly the least noises, the most insignificant sounds; a closing door, a rapid step on the stairs strikes me dumb with terror. And yet--so quick! it seems impossible! * * * * * Paul, my friend--my brother! where are you?--all is over! An hour ago I saw the doctor and the priest coming down. Monsieur de Malouet was following them. "Go up," he told me. "Come, courage, sir. Be a man!" I walked into the cell; Madame de Malouet had remained alone there; she was kneeling by the bedside and beckoned me to approach. I gazed upon her who was about to cease suffering. A few hours had been enough to stamp upon that lovely face all the ravages of death; but life and thought still lingered in her eyes; she recognized me at once. "Monsieur," she began; then, after a pause: "George, I have loved you much. Forgive my having embittered your life with the memory of this sad incident!" I fell on my knees; I tried to speak, I could not; my tears flowed hot and fast upon her hand already cold and inert as a piece of marble. "And you, too, madam," she added; "forgive me the trouble I have given you--the grief I am causing you now." "My child!" said the old lady, "I bless you from the bottom of my heart." Then there was a pause, in the midst of which I suddenly heard a deep and broken breath--ah! that supreme breath, that last sob of a deadly sorrow; God also has heard it, has received it!