Her supper! Not brought by faithful Toinon? Why? Was the episode of the cakes to be repeated? "Where is my maid?" she asked. "Very ill in bed--delirious," the servant answered with respect. "Ill! Delirious! What has happened? I will go to her at once." "As madame wishes," the lacquey replied. "I was to inform madame that Mademoiselle Brunelle has undertaken to cure the invalid, and is with her now." Words of enquiry rose and died on Gabrielle's lips. The servant bowed and retired. Mademoiselle Brunelle closeted with Toinon? The marquise had endured overmuch, and just now could not cope with that woman. The baleful Algaé had taken the faithful waiting-maid in hand, who under her manipulation was ill and delirious? Her last friend was taken away from her. She was alone now, quite, quite alone. They wished her also to become ill and delirious? She glanced at the supper-tray and smiled at the dainties thereon set out. No. She would not perish that way. If only she could see Toinon! To what end? The devoted girl was paying the penalty of faithfulness. If she went now to see her she could do no good; would probably not be allowed to see her at all; would be rudely turned away by that woman, as in old times she had been from the nursery. But it was hard to bear--oh, hard, very hard to bear; thus to be left without a friend--without a tender hand, the crisis past, lovingly to close her eyes! And yet how pitifully foolish to be disturbed about such petty details! When the soul is freed, what matters if the glassy eyes whose glory has faded away are closed or not; and if they are, by whom they are closed? What childish folly to care, and yet, as Gabrielle sought her gloomy bedchamber, she felt more solitary than ever before in her existence. The dingy ancestors peering down from out their dusty frames--they who had long passed the rubicon and knew the secret, if secret there be to know--seemed in the fitful glare of the smouldering fire to laugh and mow at her folly. What a pother over a few years of suffering. The dead only are at peace--the dead only enjoy rest. Oh, blessed dead and fortunate! And here was a storm-tossed mortal on the very threshold of freedom, clinging to and hugging her chains. Oh, pitiable and laughter-moving spectacle! Poor, silly, straining little shallop on the immeasurable ocean of destiny! Summon thy waning courage, oh, nerve racked atom of humanity, tossed on the waves of time. Courage, shrinking coward, and be thankful that thy corroding gyves will so soon be broken. The marquise, though faint from lack of food and many emotions, refused to eat. How cruel of Toinon to fall ill at such a time! and yet not so; for it must be the band of wretches who had made her ill. Her mistress would go to bed and forget her misery in sleep. Sleep! With nerves stretched to tightest tension, how could she hope to sleep? Wearily she threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she was, and gnawed the pillow in her travail.