d his head, then after a moment, gravely said:

"What did you think was left for a woman--for a Chantavoine? It is not
the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur."

So saying, he bowed again to Philip and turned upon his heel.

CHAPTER XLIV

Philip lay on a bed in the unostentatious lodging in the Rue de
Vaugirard where Damour had brought him. The surgeon had pronounced the
wound mortal, giving him but a few hours to live. For long after he
was gone Philip was silent, but at length he said "You heard what
Grandjon-Larisse said--It is broken pride that kills, Damour." Then he
asked for pen, ink, and paper. They were brought to him. He tried the
pen upon the paper, but faintness suddenly seized him, and he fell back
unconscious.

When he came to himself he was alone in the room. It was cold and
cheerless--no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lamp
in the street outside his window. He rang the bell at his hand. No one
answered. He called aloud: "Damour! Damour!"

Damour was far beyond earshot. He had bethought him that now his place
was in Bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortune
remained, what of Philip's valuables might be secured. Ere he had fallen
back insensible, Philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name on
a piece of paper. Above this Damour wrote for himself an order upon the
chamberlain of Bercy to enter upon Philip's private apartments in the
castle; and thither he was fleeing as Philip lay dying in the dark room
of the house in the Rue de Vaugirard.

The woman of the house, to whose care Philip was passed over by Damour,
had tired of watching, and had gone to spend one of his gold pieces for
supper with her friends.

Meanwhile in the dark comfortless room, the light from without
flickering upon his blanched face, Philip was alone with himself,
with memory, and with death. As he lay gasping, a voice seemed to ring
through the silent room, repeating the same words again and again--and
the voice was his own voice. It was himself--some other outside self of
him--saying, in tireless repetition: "May I die a black, dishonourable
death, abandoned and alone, if ever I deceive you. I should deserve that
if I deceived you, Guida!... " "A black, dishonourable death, abandoned
and alone": it was like some horrible dirge chanting in his ear.

Pictures flashed before his eyes, strange imaginings. Now he was passing
through dark corridors, and th