Marguerite’s management of the household since her mother’s illness had amply fulfilled the dying woman’s hopes that Madame Claes was able to look upon the future of the family without absolute despair, confident that she herself would live again in this strong and loving angel. Both women felt, no doubt, that sad and mutual confidences must now be made between them; the daughter looked at the mother, the mother at the daughter, tears flowing from their eyes. Several times, as Madame Claes rested from her writing, Marguerite said: “Mother?” then she dropped as if choking; but the mother, occupied with her last thoughts, did not ask the meaning of the interrogation. At last, Madame Claes wished to seal the letter; Marguerite held the taper, turning aside her head that she might not see the superscription. “You can read it, my child,” said the mother, in a heart-rending voice. The young girl read the words, “To my daughter Marguerite.” “We will talk to each other after I have rested awhile,” said Madame Claes, putting the letter under her pillow. Then she fell back as if exhausted by the effort, and slept for several hours. When she woke, her two daughters and her two sons were kneeling by her bed and praying. It was Thursday. Gabriel and Jean had been brought from school by Emmanuel de Solis, who for the last six months was professor of history and philosophy. “Dear children, we must part!” she cried. “You have never forsaken me, never! and he who--” She stopped. “Monsieur Emmanuel,” said Marguerite, seeing the pallor on her mother’s face, “go to my father, and tell him mamma is worse.” Young de Solis went to the door of the laboratory and persuaded Lemulquinier to make Balthazar come and speak to him. On hearing of the urgent request of the young man, Claes answered, “I will come.” “Emmanuel,” said Madame Claes when he returned to her, “take my sons away, and bring your uncle here. It is time to give me the last sacraments, and I wish to receive them from his hand.” When she was alone with her daughters she made a sign to Marguerite, who understood her and sent Felicie away. “I have something to say to you myself, dear mamma,” said Marguerite who, not believing her mother so ill as she really was, increased the wound Pierquin had given. “I have had no money for the household expenses during the last ten days; I owe six months’ wages to the servants. Twice I have tried to ask my father for money, but did not dare to do so. You don’t know, perhaps, that all the pictures in the gallery have been sold, and all the wines in the cellar?” “He never told me!” exclaimed Madame Claes. “My God! thou callest me to thyself in time! My poor children! what will become of them?” She made a fervent prayer, which brought the fires of repentance to her eyes.