“I had not thought to go so far when I began. It was mostly a whim. But the idea gradually possessed me, and at last it seemed to me that I was a real Napoleon. I used to wake from the dream for a moment, and I tried to stop, but something in my blood drove me on--inevitably. You were all good to me; you nearly all believed in me. Lagroin came--and so it has gone on till now, till now. I had a feeling what the end would be. But I should have had my dream. I should have died for the cause as no Napoleon or Bonaparte ever died. Like a man, I would pay the penalty Fate should set. What more could I do? If a man gives all he has, is not that enough? ... There is my whole story. Now, I shall ask your pardon, dear Cure.” “You must ask pardon of God, my son,” said the priest, his looks showing the anguish he felt. “The Little Chemist said two hours, but I feel”--his voice got very faint “I feel that he is mistaken.” He murmured a prayer, and crossed himself thrice. The Cure made ready to read the office for the dying. “My son,” he said, “do you truly and earnestly repent you of your sins?” Valmond’s eyes suddenly grew misty, his breathing heavier. He scarcely seemed to comprehend. “I have paid the price--I have loved you all. Parpon--where are you?--Elise!” A moment of silence, and then his voice rang out with a sort of sob. “Ah, madame,” he cried chokingly, “dear madame, for you I--” Madame Chalice arose with a little cry, for she knew whom he meant, and her heart ached for him. She forgot his imposture--everything. “Ah, dear, dear monsieur!” she said brokenly. He knew her voice, he heard her coming; his eyes opened wide, and he raised himself on the couch with a start. The effort loosened the bandage at his neck, and blood gushed out on his bosom. With a convulsive motion he drew up the coverlet to his chin, to hide the red stream, and said gaspingly: “Pardon, madame.” Then a shudder passed through him, and with a last effort to spare her the sight of his ensanguined body,’ he fell face downward, voiceless--for ever. The very earth seemed breathing. Long waves of heat palpitated over the harvest-fields, and the din of the locust drove lazily through. The far cry of the king-fisher, and idly clacking wheels of carts rolling down from Dalgrothe Mountain, accented the drowsy melody of the afternoon. The wild mustard glowed so like a golden carpet, that the destroying hand of the anxious farmer seemed of the blundering tyranny of labour. Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too gay for sorrow to pass that way; but a blind girl, led by a little child, made a lane through the red luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity and valour, and the remnant of an unfulfilled manhood, lay beaten to death.