ehold stillness, and in this
condition of passive gloom the House of Claes reached the first weeks
of the year 1816. Pierquin, the lawyer, was destined, at the close of
February, to strike the death-blow of the fragile woman who, in the
words of the Abbe de Solis, was well-nigh without sin.

"Madame," said Pierquin, seizing a moment when her daughters could not
hear the conversation, "Monsieur Claes has directed me to borrow three
hundred thousand francs on his property. You must do something to
protect the future of your children."

Madame Claes clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling; then
she thanked the notary with a sad smile and a kindly motion of her head
which affected him.

His words were the stab that killed her. During that day she had yielded
herself up to sad reflections which swelled her heart; she was like the
wayfarer walking beside a precipice who loses his balance and a mere
pebble rolls him to the depth of the abyss he had so long and so
courageously skirted. When the notary left her, Madame Claes told
Marguerite to bring writing materials; then she gathered up her
remaining strength to write her last wishes. Several times she paused
and looked at her daughter. The hour of confidence had come.

Marguerite's management of the household since her mother's illness had
amply fulfilled the dying woman's hopes that Madame Claes was able to
look upon the future of the family without absolute despair, confident
that she herself would live again in this strong and loving angel. Both
women felt, no doubt, that sad and mutual confidences must now be made
between them; the daughter looked at the mother, the mother at the
daughter, tears flowing from their eyes. Several times, as Madame Claes
rested from her writing, Marguerite said: "Mother?" then she dropped as
if choking; but the mother, occupied with her last thoughts, did not ask
the meaning of the interrogation. At last, Madame Claes wished to seal
the letter; Marguerite held the taper, turning aside her head that she
might not see the superscription.

"You can read it, my child," said the mother, in a heart-rending voice.

The young girl read the words, "To my daughter Marguerite."

"We will talk to each other after I have rested awhile," said Madame
Claes, putting the letter under her pillow.

Then she fell back as if exhausted by the effort, and slept for several
hours. When she woke, her two daughters and her two sons were kneeling