“Oh! my poor darling, I pity you almost as much as I do myself, for, to you, the world will be as lonely as my grave.”

  Amaury sobbed aloud, Antoinette felt great tears rolling down her cheeks, the priest prayed in broken accents.

  You are talking too much, Madeleine,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny tenderly; at the near approach of death, he alone, in the strength of his great love, was able to maintain his composure.

  “And what shall I say to you father?” she continued, “to you, whose words and actions during the last two months, have been so sublime a preparation, that I shall not be dazzled by the great love of God; you whose love is so boundless and merciful as to harbour no thought of jealousy, or what is nobler still, to allow no suspicion of it to appear.

  And now of whom can you be jealous, unless it be of God? Nevertheless this disinterested affection is sublime; I revere it, and — ” she added softly, “I envy it.”

  “My child,” said the priest, “your friend Antoinette, your sister Antoinette, whom you have sent for, is here.”‘

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  FINDING that her presence was discovered, Antoinette uttered a cry, and with tears streaming down her cheeks advanced towards Madeleine, who at first drew back; but regaining her self-control in a moment, she stretched out her arms to her cousin who threw herself beside her on the bed.

  For the next few moments the two girls remained clasped in each other’s arms; then Antoinette drew back, and the priest having disappeared, she took his place at the foot of the bed.

  Notwithstanding the anxiety of the past two months, and the pain and sorrow which she felt at this moment, Antoinette, resplendent in her youth and beauty, seemed destined to a long and brilliant future, and might well expect the homage of every free and earnest young heart; it was therefore easy to interpret Madeleine’s jealous thought, as her eyes travelled from her despairing lover to the bright and brilliant girl whom she would so soon be leaving beside him.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny stooped towards her, and whispered: “It was you, dear, who wished her to come back.”

  “Yes, yes! dear father,” Madeleine murmured, “and indeed I am glad to see her again.”

  And the dying girl smiled at Antoinette with an expression of angelic sweetness.

  As for Amaury, he only saw in Madeleine’s action the very natural jealousy of a dying girl, towards another who is full of life and strength. And as he looked from his pale, stricken Madeleine, to Antoinette brimming over with health and vitality, he experienced what he believed to be the same feeling as Madeleine’s — anger and hatred of the insolent beauty which contrasted so cruelly with this sad and painful death. It seemed to him that if he did not die with Madeleine, as he had resolved to do, he would for ever detest Antoinette — a living irony; as much as he would love Madeleine — an ideal remembrance.

  He was about to reassure the dying girl by whispering in her ear a vow to this effect, when he was suddenly startled by the ringing of a little bell.

  It signalled the approach of the Curé of Ville d’Auray who, assisted by the sacristan of St. Philippe du Roule, and two choristers, was coming to administer the last sacrament to Madeleine.

  At the sound of this bell there was complete silence, and each one fell on his knees where he stood. Madeleine alone half raised herself, as if to go forward and meet that God who was coming to her.

  First came the sacristan bearing the cross, followed by the choristers with their lighted tapers, whilst the venerable priest, carrying the viaticum, closed the mournful procession.

  “My father,” said Madeleine, “even on the threshold of eternity, our souls may be assailed by guilty thoughts. My father, since I confessed this morning I very much fear that I have sinned. Before I receive the body of our Blessed Lord, draw near to me, I pray, that I may unburden myself to you once more.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny and Amaury drew back simultaneously, and the priest approached Madeleine.

  Glancing towards Amaury and Antoinette, the white-souled child whispered a few words to the good priest, whose only reply was a blessing.

  Then the holy ceremony began.

  One must have passed through a moment like this, and knelt beside the bed of one dearer to us than life itself, to realize how the murmured words of the priest and the responses of the assistants penetrate into the inmost recesses of the soul.

  It seemed to Amaury that his heart was breaking. With clenched hands, his head thrown back and great tears streaming down his face, he looked like a statue of despair.

  Motionless, without a sigh, without a moan, without even a tear, stood Monsieur d’Avrigny, tearing his handkerchief between his teeth, and vainly trying to recall the long-forgotten prayers of his childhood.

  Antoinette alone, in her woman’s weakness, could not restrain her sobs.

  In the midst of the grief so differently expressed by these three people, the ceremony went on to its sad close.

  At last the priest approached Madeleine, who slightly raised herself, and with clasped hands, and eyes raised to heaven, received on her parched lips the host which only six years before she had received for the first time in her life.

  Then exhausted by this effort, she sank back upon her pillows, murmuring:

  “Oh, gracious God! grant that he may never know that, when I sent away Antoinette, I wished that he might die with me.”

  The priest then left the room, followed by the sacristan and the choristers.

  After a few moments of gloomy silence, Madeleine unclasped her hands and let them fall on either side of the bed. Monsieur d’ Avrigny and Amaury each seized one of these little wasted hands. Nothing therefore remained for Antoinette, who continued to pray.

  Then began a silent mournful vigil.

  Madeleine made one more effort to speak; she wished to bid a last adieu to the two beings she loved best on earth; but she was rapidly sinking, and these few words cost her so great an effort that bending his white head towards her, Monsieur d’Avrigny, who knelt beside the bed, entreated her not to speak.

  It was plain to his practiced eye that all was over, and the only thing he desired now was to do all that lay in his power to retard the hour of the eternal separation.

  He had at first asked God to spare Madeleine’s life, then that she might live a few years longer, then a few months, and finally a few days; now he only prayed that the Lord would spare her to him a few hours more.

  “I am cold,” murmured Madeleine.

  Antoinette seated herself at the foot of the bed, and tried to warm the feet of the dying girl in her hands.

  Madeleine murmured something, but she was now too far gone to speak.

  It was impossible to depict the anguish and despair of the three breaking hearts; only such as have experienced the supreme anguish of such a terrible night, only such as have watched the last hours of a beloved daughter or mother, can understand. Let those whom fate has spared such bitter sorrow, thank God, that they do not understand.

  The eyes of both Amaury and Antoinette were fixed on Monsieur d’Avrigny’s face; hope is so strong within the human breast that neither of them could understand that all was nearly over, and they watched Monsieur d’Avrigny, still hoping against hope.

  But the same gloom rested on his brow, no ray of hope lighted up the despairing grief of that sad face.

  Towards four o’clock in the morning, Madeleine fell into a doze. On seeing her eyes close, Amaury started up, but Monsieur d’Avrigny reassured him by a glance.

  “She only sleeps,” he said; “be calm, Amaury, she has still an hour to live.”

  In truth, beautiful, fragile and delicate Madeleine slumbered, whilst the night changed into morning twilight, and the stars melted and disappeared one after the other in the whiteness of the dawn.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny held Madeleine’s hand in one of his own, whilst, with the other, he felt the action of the pulse, which, growing feebler at the extremities, became stronger again at the wrist.

  At five o’clock the bell of the Angelus rang from a neighbouring Church, summoning souls to God and the faithful to prayer.

  A bird rested a moment on the window sill, sang its little song and flew away.

  Madeleine opened her eyes, tried to raise herself, and gasping; “Give me air, give me air,” she fell back with a sigh. It was her last.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny rose, and, in a choking voice, said: “Farewell, Madeleine.”

  Amaury uttered a cry; Antoinette sobbed.

  Madeleine was indeed gone; she had softly faded away with the stars; she had gently glided from sleep to death with no greater struggle than a sigh.

  Father, lover, and sister gazed quietly on their darling for a few moments.

  Then as those beautiful eyes, which now only looked on the glories of heaven, still remained open, Amaury stretched out his hand to close them. But Monsieur d’Avrigny seized it, saying: “I am her father, sir.”

  And he performed this last sad service to the dead.

  After a few moments of sad, silent contemplation, he drew up over the dead face of his beloved daughter, the sheet which had now become her shroud, and covered the beautiful features which were already stiffening in the clasp of death.

  Then, all three weeping bitterly fell on their knees, and prayed together on earth, for her who even now was praying for them in heaven.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  ON returning to his room, Amaury found that everything around him — the furniture, the pictures, the very atmosphere — was filled with such heartbreaking memories, such bitter thoughts, that he could not bear it. So, merely to get away from his sad surroundings, he went out of the house and wandered aimlessly about.

  It was six o’clock in the morning. He walked along with his eyes fixed on the ground, and, in the loneliness and desolation of his soul, he saw but one thing, — the form of Madeleine lying in her shroud; heard but one fatal echo repeating over and over the sad word “Dead! dead!”

  He had reached, not knowing how, the Boulevard des Italiens, when some obstacle came across his path.

  Looking up, he saw three young fellows obstructing his way. They were three friends of his, boon companions of his bachelor days, who, looking very fast and dissipated, came swaggering along, and were just in that half-tipsy condition when a man is eager to recognise his friend, and expects him to shake hands in return.

  “Why! it is Amaury,” cried one, in that loud, blatant voice which’ indicates profound contempt of what is passing around; “whither are you bound, Amaury, and how is it that for the last two months no one has seen anything of you?”

  “To begin with, gentlemen,” said another, cutting short what his friend was saying, “and before we go on to anything else, as Amaury is rather straight-laced, let us clear ourselves in his eyes of the seeming crime of roaming about town at the unheard-of hour of seven o’clock in the morning! Do not imagine, my dear boy, that we have just got up; no! the fact is, we have not yet gone to bed, do you understand? so you see us now on our way thither. We have all three — three and three makes six, of course — spent the night at Albert’s place, feasting right royally, and now we are innocently wending our way home, and on foot, so as to inhale the morning air.”

  “All this only goes to prove,” continued the third, who was rather more tipsy than the two others, “the profundity and truth of that wise dictum of Monsieur de Talleyrand’s:

  “When at man was always happy... —

  Amaury stared wildly at them, hearing what they were saying without taking in the sense of the words.

  “And now, Amaury,” said the first speaker, “now it is your turn to account to us for your morning airing, also for your total disappearance for the last two months.”

  “Ah! but, I know, gentlemen,” continued the other; “I can give you the reason; and this proves the truth of what I have been maintaining for the last hour, that, although I, alone, have drunk as much as you two put together, still I am the least drunk of the three. Amaury is suffering from a love fever for the daughter of Doctor d’Avrigny.”

  “Precisely so! if I remember right, and if the good old father-in-law gave us the correct date on the night of the ball, to-day, the nth September, he is to wed the beautiful Madeleine.”

  “Yes!” said one of them, “but have you forgotten that on that very night the dear child in question fainted in our friend’s arms?”

  “Really! I hope that she has now quite recovered from the effects of it — ”

  “Yes! gentlemen! “Amaury replied.

  “Is she quite cured?”

  “She is dead!”

  “When did she die?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “Great God!” gasped the three young rakes, sobered for the moment.

  “An hour ago!” repeated Albert; “poor old chap! and I who was just on the point of inviting you to breakfast with us — ”

  “I could not think of it; but I, in turn, have an invitation to give you; will you be present with me to-morrow at Madeleine’s funeral?”

  And grasping them each in turn by the hand, he went on his way.

  The three friends remained staring at each other.

  “He is terribly mad!” said one.

  “Or terribly strong-minded!” said another.

  “Which means the same thing,” added Albert.

  “Never mind, gentlemen,” said the first speaker; “at any rate we are all agreed that, to meet a widowed lover after one has been drinking, is not conducive to liveliness.”

  “Will you go to the funeral?” said his friend.

  “We cannot help ourselves,” Albert replied.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the ‘other, “let us not forget that to-morrow Grisi makes her re appearance in Othello.”

  “That is true. Well, gentlemen, we will just put in an appearance at the church; so long as Amaury sees us, that will be all sufficient.”

  And, re-lighting their cigars, which had gone out during the discussion, the three I continued on their way.

  After Amaury had left his three friends, the idea which had hitherto lain dormant in his mind, began to take form. He [ wished to die.

  For, Madeleine dead, what was life henceforth to him? What desire, what ‘affection had power to make him cling to life?

  In losing his loved one, had he not lost his all? The only hope left him was to rejoin her soon, as he had so often resolved to do.

  “There are but two alternatives,” Amaury said to himself, “either there is a hereafter or there is not.”

  “If there is another life, I shall rejoin my darling, and in finding her, regain my joy and happiness.”

  “If there is not, my misery is at an end, and I cease to mourn; therefore either way, I have everything to gain and nothing to lose, since I can only lose my life.”

  This resolution once taken, it behoved Amaury to assume an attitude of calm, almost joyful, resignation. This purpose once irrevocably decided upon, there was no longer any reason why he should alter his usual habits, why he should not take up the ordinary routine of life.

  Besides, when the news of his death ! became known, he did not wish it said that he had done away with himself in a moment of despair, like a madman or a fool. On the contrary, it must be thought that he had arrived at this decision in cold blood, that it was a proof not of weakness, but of strength.

  This accordingly is what Amaury decided to do.

  To-day he will set his affairs in order, pay off his debts, write his last wishes, visit those friends whom he cared for most, and simply inform them that he is about to start on a long journey.

  On the morrow, sad yet calm, he will attend the funeral of his darling; in the evening, he will go to the Opera, sit at the back of his box, and listen to the last act of Othello, to the ballad of the willow, the last swan-song, Rossini’s masterpiece, which Madeleine so dearly loved. The Muses produce a sombre pleasure, fitting preparation for death.

  On leaving the Opera-house, he will return home, and there blow his brains out.

  Before proceeding, let us say at once that Amaury had a true heart, a well- regulated mind; and that he had thus arranged the details of his end in perfect good faith and with no after-thought; he did not even see that his plan was somewhat theatrical, and that one could die much more simply.

  On the contrary, he was at an age when everything he intended doing seemed to him very simple and very grand, and in proof of this, being firmly convinced in his own mind that he had but two days more to live, he stifled his grief, returned quietly to his house, went to bed, and, worn out with varied emotions and longstanding fatigue, slept as soundly as he hoped to sleep on the following night.

  He awoke at three o’clock, dressed himself with care, visited the friends he had intended to see, left his card on those who were not at home, announced to the others his projected journey, embraced one or two, shook hands with the rest, returned home, and dined alone — as he saw neither Monsieur d’Avrigny nor Antoinette that whole day — and all this he did with an air of such strange calmness that the servants kept asking themselves if he were not mad.

  At ten o’clock, he retired to his own house in the Rue des Mathurins, and there began to make his will, by which he left the half of his fortune to Antoinette, and a legacy of four thousand pounds to Philip, who had called regularly up to the last day to enquire after Madeleine; the remainder of his fortune he divided into different legacies.

  Then he continued his diary from where he had left off, wrote it up to the last hour, inserting in it his last resolution. All this he did with the utmost composure, even his handwriting losing none of its usual firmness.

  He had slept the greater part of the day, in order to prepare for the vigil. When eight o’clock struck, all his preparations were complete.

  He took down his duelling pistols, loaded each with two bullets, put them in his coat-pocket, and drove to Monsieur d’Avrigny’s.

  Since the preceding night, Monsieur d’Avrigny had not left his daughter’s room.