the deeply tragical hour that comes in all
our lives, the hour of listening in terror to every deep breath lest it
should be the last, a dark hour protracted over many days. On the fifth
day of that fatal week the doctor interdicted flowers in the room. The
illusions of life were going one by one.

Then Marie and his brother felt their mother's lips hot as fire beneath
their kisses; and at last, on the Saturday evening, Mme. Willemsens was
too ill to bear the slightest sound, and her room was left in disorder.
This neglect for a woman of refined taste, who clung so persistently to
the graces of life, meant the beginning of the death-agony. After this,
Louis refused to leave his mother. On Sunday night, in the midst of the
deepest silence, when Louis thought that she had grown drowsy, he saw a
white, moist hand move the curtain in the lamplight.

"My son!" she said. There was something so solemn in the dying woman's
tones, that the power of her wrought-up soul produced a violent reaction
on the boy; he felt an intense heat pass through the marrow of his
bones.

"What is it, mother?"

"Listen! To-morrow all will be over for me. We shall see each other no
more. To-morrow you will be a man, my child. So I am obliged to make
some arrangements, which must remain a secret, known only to us. Take
the key of my little table. That is it. Now open the drawer. You will
find two sealed papers to the left. There is the name of LOUIS on one,
and on the other MARIE."

"Here they are, mother."

"Those are your certificates of birth, darling; you will want them. Give
them to our poor, old Annette to keep for you; ask her for them when
you need them. Now," she continued, "is there not another paper as well,
something in my handwriting?"

"Yes, mother," and Louis began to read, "_Marie Willemsens, born
at_----"

"That is enough," she broke in quickly, "do not go on. When I am
dead, give that paper, too, to Annette, and tell her to send it to the
registrar at Saint-Cyr; it will be wanted if my certificate of death
is to be made out in due form. Now find writing materials for a letter
which I will dictate to you."

When she saw that he was ready to begin, and turned towards her for the
words, they came from her quietly:--

"Monsieur le Comte, your wife, Lady Brandon, died at Saint-Cyr, near
Tours, in the department of Indre-et-Loire. She forgave you."

"Sign yourself----" she stopped, hesitating and perturbed.

"Are you feel