This happened early in January. Towards the close of February, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an absurd costume, in spite of all the attempts which her niece made to dissuade her. Her passion for dress killed her. Her illness lasted only three days; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were terrible. Constrained by fear of death to examine her own conscience, she saw plainly enough that profiting by her niece’s crime had been as culpable as if she had actually aided her in committing it. Aunt Medea had been very devout in former years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and intensified. Her faith returned, followed by a train of terrors. “I am lost, I am lost!” she cried, tossing to and fro on her bed; writhing and shrieking as if she already saw hell opening to engulf her. She called on the Holy Virgin and all the saints to protect her. She entreated heaven to grant her time for repentance and expiation; and she even begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession. Paler than the dying woman, but still implacable, Blanche watched over her, aided by one of her maids in whom she had most confidence. “If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought. “I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will betray me.” But it did not last long. The patient’s delirium was followed by such utter prostration that it seemed as if each moment would be her last. But towards midnight she revived a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she faltered, “You have had no pity on me, Blanche. You have deprived me of all hope in the life to come. Heaven will punish you. You will die like a dog yourself, and alone without a word of Christian counsel or encouragement. I curse you!” And she expired, just as the clock was striking two.