Then he grew enraged--mad; he rushed to the supper room, screamed to them to see him do an act of justice; and, as they came streaming out and round about, he took from his pocket all his winnings, and cried, “You see that woman! well, do you know what she has done for me? She sold her horses and her carriages, and her diamonds, that she might live with me--so much did she love me. Was not that noble? And I--what did I do? I, a mean wretch, accepted the sacrifice, and gave no payment. But ’tis not too late, and I would repair my shame. See you all, I pay this Marguerite, and I owe her naught.” As he spoke, he flung a heap of bank notes and gold at the feet of this miserable woman, who fell heavily back upon a sofa, mercifully deprived of sense. Down they rained upon her, the notes and gold; down they fell crushing her as surely as though they had been jagged rocks. CHAPTER IV. Conquered, weak, and dying, she lay upon her bed in the joyous carnival time. While all Paris was gay and merry, she was drawing her last breath. Misery, degradation, desertion, and consumption, had done their worst; they had destroyed her, but not wholly killed her beauty. Far, far from the brilliant creature who had ruled over so many but a short time before, she was yet beautiful as she lay upon her bed, awake, and heavily breathing through the dark hours of the night. Now and then she would fall into a feverish sleep, but only to start back into wakefulness, as a bevy of masques returned home from their revels, singing as they went. What a contrast! the poor dying creature lying there, and below in the streets the heedless revellers, shouting their noisy songs, and dancing madly through the otherwise deserted streets. She knew that she had not many days to live, and yet she had one glorious hope, possessing which she looked back upon her blank despair with horror. It was three months since the catastrophe at the ball. Her protector and Armand had met and fought, and the former been slightly wounded. This was the joy: he knew the whole truth or would know it. His father had promised that when she died he should know all. But alas! after the duel he had left Paris, and no one knew where he had hidden himself. To think that he might know that her very love had bidden her leave him, and that he himself was now the only cause of his ignorance. Yet there was plenty of time, plenty of time; and before she died she should surely see him. Many of her companions and friends had forgotten her by this time. But when her waiting woman came in that morning, she had half-a-dozen new year’s presents for the patient;--so she was not forgotten altogether. The faithful doctor soon came, he who had so patiently tended her, without fee or reward.