soon turned into convulsions
which I had much difficulty in quieting.

I had placed myself close to her; she had a consuming fever, her eyes
glistened. I begged her to consent to take the absolute rest which was
alone suitable to her condition.

"What is the use?" she replied. "I am not ill. It is not the fever that is
killing me, nor the cold, it is the thought that is burning me
there;"--she touched her forehead--"it is shame--it is your scorn and your
hatred; now, alas! but too well deserved!"

My heart overflowed then, Paul; I told her everything; my passion, my
regrets, my remorse! I covered with kisses her trembling hands, her cold
forehead, her damp hair. I poured into her poor shattered soul all the
tenderness, all the pity, all the adoration a man's soul can contain! She
knew now that I loved her; she could not doubt it!

She listened to me with rapture. "Now," she said, "now, I am no longer to
be pitied. I have never been so happy in all my life. I did not deserve
it--I have nothing further to wish--nothing further to hope--I shall not
regret anything."

She fell into a slumber. Her parted lips are smiling a pure and placid
smile; but she is taken at intervals with terrible spasms, and her
features are becoming terribly altered. I am watching her while writing
these lines.

* * * * *

Madame de Malouet has just arrived with her husband. I had judged her
rightly! Her voice and her words were those of a mother. She had taken
care to bring her physician. The patient is lying in a comfortable bed,
surrounded by loving and attentive friends. I feel more easy, although she
has just awakened with a fearful delirium.

Madame de Pontbrian has positively refused to come to her niece. I had
judged her rightly too, the excellent Christian!

I have deemed it my duty not to set foot again in the cell which Madame
de Malouet no longer leaves. The expression of M. de Malouet's countenance
terrifies me, and yet he assures me that the physician has not yet
pronounced.

* * * * *

The doctor has just come out; I have spoken to him.

"It is pneumonia," he told me, "complicated with brain fever."

"It is very serious, is it not?"

"Very serious."

"But is there any immediate danger?"

"I'll tell you that to-night. Her condition is so acute that it cannot
last long. Either the crisis must abate or nature must yield."

He looked up to heaven and wen