lle
was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in France,
and knew as little of what was going on around her as the lamb does of
the butcher. I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room.
It was here at Fleurieres, in the autumn. We had a doctor from Paris,
who came and stayed two or three weeks in the house. Then there came two
others, and there was a consultation, and these two others, as I said,
declared that the marquis couldn't be saved. After this they went off,
pocketing their fees, but the other one stayed and did what he could.
The marquis himself kept crying out that he wouldn't die, that he
didn't want to die, that he would live and look after his daughter.
Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount--that was Mr. Valentin, you
know--were both in the house. The doctor was a clever man,--that I could
see myself,--and I think he believed that the marquis might get well. We
took good care of him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my lady
had almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend. He
got better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger. What
was killing him was the dreadful fits of pain in his stomach. But little
by little they stopped, and the poor marquis began to make his jokes
again. The doctor found something that gave him great comfort--some
white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. I
used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him
easier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on giving
him the mixture whenever he was bad. After that there was a little
doctor from Poitiers, who came every day. So we were alone in the
house--my lady and her poor husband and their three children. Young
Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl, to her
mothers. You know she is very lively, and her maid told me that she
didn't like to be where people were dying." Mrs. Bread paused a moment,
and then she went on with the same quiet consistency. "I think you
have guessed, sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady was
disappointed." And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face which
seemed to grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them.

Newman had listened eagerly--with an eagerness greater even than that
with which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde's last words.
Every now and then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded him
of an ancient tabby cat, pr