"Hush, hush, madame," said Therese softly. She looked at her, and knew that this woman in her strange excitement was speaking truth; at another time she might have been angry at the confession, but for weeks past she had been walking on the borders of that land where wrath and bitterness are hushed. She lifted her hand and pointed to the little face on the pillow. Madame dared not speak, she fell on her knees and trembled. Therese gently drew back the _persiennes_; a sweet cool breeze came into the room, the plains were all steeped in a kind of subdued sunshine, silvery, and broken with clouds. There were long shadows on the roofs and gables, birds singing in the gardens of the Eveche; presently the murmur of a distant chant came swinging up from the Cathedral, where all the windows were open. No service was going on, but the choristers were practising a _requiem_, very sad and sweet, yet now and then breaking into triumphant chorus. Therese fancied she caught the words,--"_requiem, dona eis requiem_," shrill, clear, boyish voices answering one another. Rest was very near one of the three in that room. She touched madame, and said, "See, I think he knows us." Yes. For the last time the dim eyes turned and looked into theirs,--for the last time the little weak hand just moved as if to seek their clasp; the little voice, so strangely pathetic in its hoarse unchildlike accent, tried to reach Therese. For the last time. After that there was peace--the peace echoed by the choristers in the Cathedral--the peace that could never any more be broken. So best! CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. "One friend in that path shall be To secure my steps from wrong; One to count night day for me, Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see." R. Browning. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ M. Deshoulieres, who had not a moment to spare, paced up and down the bureau in a fever of impatience. M. Roulleau had slipped out directly his wife left the room: the doctor was too preoccupied to notice him at all, or he must have been struck with the terror in his face. "Does monsieur say that M. Saint-Martin is actually in Charville?" he asked in a trembling voice, with his hand on the door. "No. He is at Maury. There is barely time to meet the train. Will you hasten mademoiselle?"