And as he was familiar with these painful scenes, and had lost none of his self-possession, he furtively studied Mademoiselle Marguerite’s features and attitude. She seemed thunderstruck. With dry, fixed eyes and contracted features, she stood rooted to her place, gazing at the lifeless form as if she were expecting some miracle--as if she still hoped to hear those rigid lips reveal the secret which he had tried in vain to disclose, and which he had carried with him to the grave. The physician was the only person who observed this. The other occupants of the room were exchanging looks of distress. Some of the women had fallen upon their knees, and were sobbing and praying in the same breath. But Madame Leon’s sobs could be heard above the rest. They were at first inarticulate moans, but suddenly she sprang toward Mademoiselle Marguerite, and clasping her in her arms, she cried: “What a misfortune! My dearest child, what a loss!” Utterly incapable of uttering a word, the poor girl tried to free herself from this close embrace, but the housekeeper would not be repulsed, and continued: “Weep, my dear young lady, weep! Do not refuse to give vent to your sorrow.” She herself displayed so little self-control that the physician reprimanded her with considerable severity, whereat her emotion increased, and with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, she sobbed: “Yes, doctor, yes; you are right; I ought to moderate my grief. But pray, doctor, remove my beloved Marguerite from this scene, which is too terrible for her young and tender heart. Persuade her to retire to her own room, so that she may ask God for strength to bear the misfortune which has befallen her.” The poor girl had certainly no intention of leaving the room, but before she could say so, M. Casimir stepped forward. “I think,” he dryly observed, “that mademoiselle had better remain here.” “Eh?” said Madame Leon, looking up suddenly. “And why, if you please?” “Because--because----” Anger had dried the housekeeper’s tears. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you pretend to prevent mademoiselle from doing as she chooses in her own house?” M. Casimir gave vent to a contemptuous whistle, which, twenty-four hours earlier, would have been punished with a heavy blow from the man who was now lying there--dead. “Her own house!” he answered; “her own house! Yesterday I shouldn’t have denied it; but to-day it’s quite another thing. Is she a relative? No, she isn’t. What are you talking about, then? We are all equals here.” He spoke so impudently that even the doctor felt indignant. “Scoundrel!” said he.