He received no answer. Just then the doctor was not thinking about the young lady. He strode hastily up the stairs, through an atmosphere yet heavy and sweet with its lingering cloud of incense, and into the room where M. Moreau was doing battle with the last enemy he would have to contend with. A girl stood by the side of the bed, looking down on the dread struggle with pitiful eyes. Except now and then moistening the poor parched lips or smoothing the tumbled pillow, there was nothing for her to do but watch: all apparent consciousness was at an end; no sign of recognition greeted the doctor. He also stood watching for a few minutes before he turned to the girl. "How long is it since this change came on, mademoiselle?" "About a quarter of an hour. I think he hardly heard Monsieur le Cure's last words," she added, under her breath. Her voice trembled: that quarter of an hour had seemed very terrible to poor Therese. The sunlight streamed in at the window, but, in spite of it, the room looked dark and funereal: there was a heavy paper on the walls; stiff, solid furniture; in one corner a huge black stove reared itself grimly towards the ceiling. The women of the house would have stayed with her, but the old man was impatient of their presence: almost his last word had been a peremptory "Go!" still fierce enough to frighten them. It was not likely that the consciousness of any person's presence would return, as M. Deshoulieres quickly perceived. He took the little notary to the door, and told him so. "There is no possible use in your waiting, M. Ignace," he said. "I was a fool, and must abide by the consequences. Nothing will ever be changed now. What is the matter?--are you ill?" he went on, noticing his pale face. "For the moment,--only for the moment, M. Deshoulieres," answered the little man, with a quavering voice. "It is so horrible, you know, to see him like that. Will--will it be soon?"