Florimond, and endeavour to compel me by means gentle or ungentle into
marriage with Marius?"

"We thought Florimond dead; or, if not dead, then certainly unworthy of
you to leave you without news of him for years together. And if he was
not dead then, it is odds he will be dead by now." The words slipped
out almost unconsciously, and the Marquise bit her lip and straightened
herself, fearing an explosion. But none came. The girl looked across
the table at the fire that smouldered on the hearth in need of being
replenished.

"What do you mean, madame?" she asked; but her tone was listless,
apathetic, as of one who though uttering a question is incurious as to
what the answer may be.

"We had news some days ago that he was journeying homewards, but that he
was detained by fever at La Rochette. We have since heard that his fever
has grown so serious that there is little hope of his recovery."

"And it was to solace his last moments that Monsieur Marius left
Condillac this morning?"

The Dowager looked sharply at the girl; but Valerie's face continued
averted, her gaze resting on the fire. Her tone suggested nothing beyond
a natural curiosity.

"Yes," said the Dowager.

"And lest his own efforts to help his brother out of this world should
prove insufficient he took Captain Fortunio with him?" said Valerie, in
the same indifferent voice.

"What do you mean?" the Marquise almost hissed into the girl's ear.

Valerie turned to her, a faint colour stirring in her white face.

"Just what I have said, madame. Would you know what I have prayed?
All night was I upon my knees from the moment that I recovered
consciousness, and my prayers were that Heaven might see fit to let
Florimond destroy your son. Not that I desire Florimond's return, for
I care not if I never set eyes on him again. There is a curse upon this
house, madame," the girl continued, rising from her chair and speaking
now with a greater animation, whilst the Marquise recoiled a step, her
face strangely altered and suddenly gone grey, "and I have prayed
that that curse might be worked out upon that assassin, Marius. A fine
husband, madame, you would thrust upon the daughter of Gaston de La
Vauvraye."

And turning, without waiting for an answer, she moved slowly down
the room, and took her way to her own desolate apartments, so full of
memories of him she mourned--of him, it seemed to her, she must always
mourn; of him who lay dead in the black waters