I certainly never remember to have been more fatigued, and willingly took advantage of the good Priest's proposal. As I retired with the medical man, however, I asked him eagerly what was the state in which he had found the Duke when we brought him home; and, in reply, he explained to me that though his skull was not fractured, yet a severe concussion of the brain had taken place, from his head having struck, in the fall, either some projecting rock, or some piece of the broken bridge. From the ravings which had since come on, he feared, he said, that there was a tendency to inflammation; and on my pressing to know what would be the result, he shook his head doubtingly, saying, that the result was in the hands of God alone; he himself could not venture to give an opinion on the subject. I did not sleep more than four or five hours, and on rising, proceeded towards the apartments of Monsieur de Villardin, in order to take my place by his bedside. I found old Jerome Laborde already there, however; who, having been made aware of the arrangements of the preceding night, had come about half an hour before to relieve the Priest. By this time, the Duke had fallen into a quiet sleep, from which I augured well; and leaving the old major-domo to hold out his watch, I descended to the saloon, feeling most oppressively that deep and shadowy gloom which always seems to fall over a house where such a sudden and fatal event has taken place as that which distinguished the foregoing evening. The low voice in which every one spoke when they met, the stealthy pace with which every one moved about the mansion, the stillness which pervaded the whole place, expressed the sense of awe that was felt by every bosom, and had something awful in itself. All this struck me much as I descended the stairs; but on entering the saloon, there was something more painful still to be encountered. The little Laura de Villardin was playing near one of the windows with some trinkets of her mother's, but the moment I entered, she ran up to me with open arms, and holding up her fair face towards me, exclaimed, "Oh! tell me--tell me, where is mamma? Suzette says she is dead, and I shall never see her again. What does _dead_ mean? Where is she gone to?" It was impossible to hear such questions calmly; and for the first time since my father's death, I wept like a child. Suzette herself now entered the saloon, and for a moment her eyes and mine met. Whether what I felt towards her was very visibly expressed in my glance or not, I cannot tell, but she turned extremely red, and casting down her eyes, caught the little girl by the arm and drew her rudely out of the room. In truth, I was not sorry to be spared more questions; and taking my hat, I walked forth into the park.