urple in the face already, her mouth wide open in a vain effort to
breathe, and her hands fumbling with the sheet. It's her heart complaint,
you know. Come, come at once, Monsieur l'Abbe, and help her, I implore
you!"

Pierre, utterly bewildered, could find neither his breeches nor his
cassock. "Of course, of course I'll come with you," said he. "But I have
not what is necessary for administering the last sacraments."

M. Vigneron had assisted him to dress, and was now stooping down looking
for his slippers. "Never mind," he said, "the mere sight of you will
assist her in her last moments, if Heaven has this affliction in store
for us. Here! put these on your feet, and follow me at once--oh! at
once!"

He went off like a gust of wind and plunged into the adjoining room. All
the doors remained wide open. The young priest, who followed him, noticed
nothing in the first room, which was in an incredible state of disorder,
beyond the half-naked figure of little Gustave, who sat on the sofa
serving him as a bed, motionless, very pale, forgotten, and shivering
amid this drama of inexorable death. Open bags littered the floor, the
greasy remains of supper soiled the table, the parents' bed seemed
devastated by the catastrophe, its coverlets torn off and lying on the
floor. And almost immediately afterwards he caught sight of the mother,
who had hastily enveloped herself in an old yellow dressing-gown,
standing with a terrified look in the inner room.

"Well, my love, well, my love?" repeated M. Vigneron, in stammering
accents.

With a wave of her hand and without uttering a word Madame Vigneron drew
their attention to Madame Chaise, who lay motionless, with her head sunk
in the pillow and her hands stiffened and twisted. She was blue in the
face, and her mouth gaped, as though with the last great gasp that had
come from her.

Pierre bent over her. Then in a low voice he said: "She is dead!"

Dead! The word rang through the room where a heavy silence reigned, and
the husband and wife looked at each other in amazement, bewilderment. So
it was over? The aunt had died before Gustave, and the youngster
inherited her five hundred thousand francs. How many times had they dwelt
on that dream; whose sudden realisation dumfounded them? How many times
had despair overcome them when they feared that the poor child might
depart before her? Dead! Good heavens! was it their fault? Had they
really prayed to the Blessed Virgin for this?