which she began to pray with a fervor
which gave to her old and withered face a splendor so vigorous that the
other old woman imitated her friend, and then all present, on a sign
from the rector, joining in the spiritual uplifting of Mademoiselle de
Guenic.

"Alas! I prayed to God," said the baroness, remembering her prayer after
reading the fatal letter written by Calyste, "and he did not hear me."

"Perhaps it would be well," said the rector, "if we begged Mademoiselle
des Touches to come and see Calyste."

"She!" cried old Zephirine, "the author of all our misery! she who has
turned him from his family, who has taken him from us, led him to read
impious books, taught him an heretical language! Let her be accursed,
and may God never pardon her! She has destroyed the du Guenics!"

"She may perhaps restore them," said the rector, in a gentle voice.
"Mademoiselle des Touches is a saintly woman; I am her surety for that.
She has none but good intentions to Calyste. May she only be enabled to
carry them out."

"Let me know the day when she sets foot in this house, that I may get
out of it," cried the old woman passionately. "She has killed both
father and son. Do you think I don't hear death in Calyste's voice? he
is so feeble now that he has barely strength to whisper."

It was at this moment that the three doctors arrived. They plied Calyste
with questions; but as for his father, the examination was short; they
were surprised that he still lived on. The Guerande doctor calmly told
the baroness that as to Calyste, it would probably be best to take him
to Paris and consult the most experienced physicians, for it would cost
over a hundred _louis_ to bring one down.

"People die of something, but not of love," said Mademoiselle de
Pen-Hoel.

"Alas! whatever be the cause, Calyste is dying," said the baroness. "I
see all the symptoms of consumption, that most horrible disease of my
country, about him."

"Calyste dying!" said the baron, opening his eyes, from which rolled two
large tears which slowly made their way, delayed by wrinkles, along his
cheeks,--the only tears he had probably ever shed in his life. Suddenly
he rose to his feet, walked the few steps to his son's bedside, took his
hand, and looked earnestly at him.

"What is it you want, father?" said Calyste.

"That you should live!" cried the baron.

"I cannot live without Beatrix," replied Calyste.

The old man dropped into a chair.

"Oh! where cou