They mentioned the different articles in the room--everything indeed that they could think of. But in vain, until the housekeeper suddenly exclaimed: “He wishes to write.” That was, indeed, what he desired. With the hand that was comparatively free, with the hoarse rattle that was his only voice, M. de Chalusse answered, “Yes, yes!” and his eyes even turned to Madame Leon with an expression of joy and gratitude. They raised him on his pillows, and brought him a small writing-desk, with some paper, and a pen that had been dipped in ink. But like those around him, he had himself over-estimated his strength; if he could move his hand, he could not CONTROL its movements. After a terrible effort and intense suffering, however, he succeeded in tracing a few words, the meaning of which it was impossible to understand. It was only with the greatest difficulty that these words could be deciphered--“My entire fortune--give--friends--against----” This signified nothing. In despair, he dropped the pen, and his glance and his hand turned to that part of the room opposite his bed. “Monsieur means his escritoire, perhaps?” “Yes, yes,” the sick man hoarsely answered. “Perhaps the count wishes that it should be opened?” “Yes, yes!” was the reply again. “My God!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Marguerite, with a gesture of despair; “what have I done? I have broken the key. I feared the responsibility which would fall upon us all.” The expression of the count’s face had become absolutely frightful. It indicated utter discouragement, the most bitter suffering, the most horrible despair. His soul was writhing in a body from which life had fled. Intelligence, mind, and will were fast bound in a corpse which they could not electrify. The consciousness of his own powerlessness caused him a paroxysm of frantic rage; his hands clinched, the veins in his throat swelled, his eyes almost started from their sockets, and in a harsh, shrill voice that had nothing human in it, he exclaimed: “Marguerite!--despoiled!--take care!--your mother!” And this was all--it was the supreme effort that broke the last link that bound the soul to earth. “A priest!” cried Madame Leon! “A priest! In the name of Heaven, go for a priest!” “Rather for a notary,” suggested M. Casimir. “You see he wishes to make a will.” But at that moment the physician entered, pale and breathless. He walked straight to the bedside, glanced at the motionless form, and solemnly exclaimed: “The Count de Chalusse is dead!” There was a moment’s stupor--the stupor which always follows death, especially when death comes suddenly and unexpectedly. A feeling of mingled wonder, selfishness, and fear pervaded the group of servants. “Yes, it is over!” muttered the doctor; “it is all over!”