t of the cross, she had seated herself on the bench. When she saw
me approach her, she rose, pretending not to have seen me, and returned
towards the house in a significantly hasty manner. She hated me; she
fled from her mother's murderer.

When I reached the portico I saw Madeleine like a statue, motionless and
erect, evidently listening to the sound of my steps. Jacques was sitting
in the portico. His attitude expressed the same insensibility to what
was going on about him that I had noticed when I first saw him; it
suggested ideas such as we lay aside in some corner of our mind to take
up and study at our leisure. I have remarked that young persons who
carry death within them are usually unmoved at funerals. I longed to
question that gloomy spirit. Had Madeleine kept her thoughts to herself,
or had she inspired Jacques with her hatred?

"You know, Jacques," I said, to begin the conversation, "that in me you
have a most devoted brother."

"Your friendship is useless to me; I shall follow my mother," he said,
giving me a sullen look of pain.

"Jacques!" I cried, "you, too, against me?"

He coughed and walked away; when he returned he showed me his
handkerchief stained with blood.

"Do you understand that?" he said.

Thus they had each of them a fatal secret. I saw before long that the
brother and sister avoided each other. Henriette laid low, all was in
ruins at Clochegourde.

"Madame is asleep," Manette came to say, quite happy in knowing that the
countess was out of pain.

In these dreadful moments, though each person knows the inevitable end,
strong affections fasten on such minor joys. Minutes are centuries which
we long to make restorative; we wish our dear ones to lie on roses,
we pray to bear their sufferings, we cling to the hope that their last
moment may be to them unexpected.

"Monsieur Deslandes has ordered the flowers taken away; they excited
Madame's nerves," said Manette.

Then it was the flowers that caused her delirium; she herself was not a
part of it.

"Come, Monsieur Felix," added Manette, "come and see Madame; she is
beautiful as an angel."

I returned to the dying woman just as the setting sun was gilding the
lace-work on the roofs of the chateau of Azay. All was calm and pure.
A soft light lit the bed on which my Henriette was lying, wrapped in
opium. The body was, as it were, annihilated; the soul alone reigned
on that face, serene as the skies when the tempest is over. Blanche