On the morrow when they tried to take the ring from me I resisted violently, and they abandoned the attempt. I fell asleep again and the abbe removed it during my sleep. But when I opened my eyes I noticed the theft, and once more began to rave. Edmee, who was in the room, ran to me at once and pressed the ring over my finger, at the same time rebuking the abbe. I immediately grew calm, and gazing, on her with lack-lustre eyes, said: “Is it not true that you are my wife in death as in life?” “Certainly,” she replied. “Set your mind at rest.” “Eternity is long,” I said, “and I should like to spend it in recalling your caresses. But I send my thoughts back in vain; they bring me no remembrance of your love.” She leant over and gave me a kiss. “Edmee, that is very wrong,” said the abbe; “such remedies turn to poison.” “Let me do as I like, abbe,” she replied, with evident impatience, sitting down near my bed; “I must ask you to let me do as I please.” I fell asleep with one of my hands in hers, repeating at intervals: “How sweet it is in the grave! Are we not fortunate to be dead?” During my convalescence Edmee was much more reserved, but no less attentive. I told her my dreams and learnt from her how far my recollections were of real events. Without her testimony I should always have believed that I had dreamt everything. I implored her to let me keep the ring, and she consented. I ought to have added, to show my gratitude for all her goodness, that I should keep it as a pledge of friendship, and not as a sign of our engagement; but such a renunciation was beyond me. One day I asked for news of M. de la Marche. It was only to Patience that I dared to put this question. “Gone,” he answered. “What! Gone?” I replied. “For long?” “Forever, please God! I don’t know anything about it, for I ask no questions; but I happened to be in the garden when he took leave of her, and it was all as cold as a December night. Still, _au revoir_ was said on both sides, but though Edmee’s manner was kind and honest as it always is, the other had the face of a farmer when he sees frosts in April. Mauprat, Mauprat, they tell me that you have become a great student and a genuine good fellow. Remember what I told you; when you are old there will probably no longer be any titles or estate. Perhaps you will be called ‘Father’ Mauprat, as I am called ‘Father’ Patience, though I have never been either a priest or a father of a family.” “Well, what are you driving at?”