“Not I, but God, Monseigneur,” he replied. “They said she was dying,” said Monsieur Grossetete, “but she is dead; there is nothing left of her but spirit.” “A soul,” said Gerard. “And yet she is still the same,” cried the _procureur-general_. “A stoic after the manner of the Porch philosophers,” said the tutor. They walked in silence the whole length of the balustrade, looking at the landscape still red with the declining light. “To me who saw this scene thirteen years ago,” said the archbishop, pointing to the fertile plain, the valley, and the mountains of Montegnac, “this miracle is as extraordinary as that we have just witnessed. But how comes it that you allow Madame Graslin to walk about? She ought to be in her bed.” “She was there,” said Madame Sauviat; “for ten days she did not leave it; but to-day she insisted on getting up to take a last look at the landscape.” “I can understand that she wanted to bid farewell to her great creation,” said Monsieur de Grandville; “but she risked expiring on this terrace.” “Monsieur Roubaud told us not to thwart her,” said Madame Sauviat. “What a stupendous work! what a miracle has been accomplished!” said the archbishop, whose eyes were roving over the scene before him. “She has literally sown the desert! But we know, monsieur,” he added, turning to Gerard, “that your scientific knowledge and your labors have a large share in it.” “They have been only the workmen,” replied the mayor. “Yes, the hands only; she has been the thought.” Madame Sauviat here left the group, to hear, if possible, the decision of the doctors. “We need some heroism ourselves,” said Monsieur de Grandville to the rector and the archbishop, “to enable us to witness this death.” “Yes,” said Monsieur Grossetete, who overheard him, “but we ought to do much for such a friend.” After several turns up and down the terrace, these persons, full of solemn thoughts, saw two farmers approaching them, sent as a deputation from the village, where the inhabitants were in a state of painful anxiety to know the sentence pronounced by the physician from Paris. “They are still consulting, and as yet we know nothing, my friends,” said the archbishop. As he spoke, Monsieur Roubaud appeared coming toward them, and they all hurried to meet him. “Well?” said the mayor. “She cannot live forty-eight hours longer,” replied Monsieur Roubaud. “During my absence the disease has fully developed; Monsieur Bianchon does not understand how it was possible for her to have walked. Such phenomenal exhibitions of strength are always caused by great mental exaltation. So, gentlemen,” said the doctor to the priests, “she belongs to you now; science is useless, and my illustrious fellow-physician thinks you have barely time enough for your last offices.” “Let us go now and say the prayers for the forty hours,” said the rector to his parishioners, turning to leave the terrace. “His Grace will doubtless administer the last sacraments.”