I fell upon my knees; I took her hand; I covered it with kisses; I broke into sobs. But she gave no heed; her hand remained in mine icy and still, like a piece of alabaster. XXIII The abbe came in and greeted me in a cold and sombre manner. Then he made a sign to me, and drawing me away from the bed, said: “You must be mad! Return at once; and if you are wise, you will remain away. It is the only thing left for you to do.” “And since when,” I cried, flying into a passion, “have you had the right to drive me out of the bosom of my family?” “Alas! you have no longer a family,” he answered, with an accent of sorrow that somewhat disarmed me. “What were once father and daughter are now naught but two phantoms, whose souls are already dead and whose bodies soon will be. Show some respect for the last days of those who loved you.” “And how can I show my respect and grief by quitting them?” I replied, quite crushed. “On this point,” said the abbe, “I neither wish nor ought to say anything; for you know that your presence here is an act of rashness and a profanation. Go away. When they are no more (and the day cannot be far distant), if you have any claims to this house, you may return, and you will certainly not find me here to contest them or affirm them. Meanwhile, as I have no knowledge of these claims, I believe I may take upon myself to see that some respect is paid to the last hours of these two holy people.” “Wretched man!” I said, “I do not know what prevents me from tearing you to pieces! What abominable impulse urges you to be everlastingly turning the dagger in my breast? Are you afraid that I may survive this blow? Cannot you see that three coffins will be taken out together from this house? do you imagine that I have come here for aught but a farewell look and a farewell blessing?” “You might say a farewell pardon,” replied the abbe, in a bitter tone, and with a gesture of merciless condemnation. “What I say is that you are mad!” I cried, “and that if you were not a priest, this hand of mine should crush the life out of you for daring to speak to me in this way.” “I have but little fear of you, sir,” he rejoined. “To take my life would be doing me a great service; but I am sorry that your threats and anger should lend weight to the charges under which you lie. If I saw that you were moved to penitence, I would weep with you; but your assurance fills me with loathing. Hitherto, I had seen in you nothing worse than a raging lunatic; to-day I seem to see a scoundrel. Begone, sir!”