ere she
commonly went once a week. An express messenger had just come to inform
her that her mother, Madame Crochard, was sinking under a complication
of disorders produced by constant catarrh and rheumatism.

While the hackney coach-driver was flogging up his horses at Caroline's
urgent request, supported by the promise of a handsome present, the
timid old women, who had been Madame Crochard's friends during her later
years, had brought a priest into the neat and comfortable second-floor
rooms occupied by the old widow. Madame Crochard's maid did not know
that the pretty lady at whose house her mistress so often dined was
her daughter, and she was one of the first to suggest the services of a
confessor, in the hope that this priest might be at least as useful
to herself as to the sick woman. Between two games of boston, or
out walking in the Jardin Turc, the old beldames with whom the widow
gossiped all day had succeeded in rousing in their friend's stony heart
some scruples as to her former life, some visions of the future, some
fears of hell, and some hopes of forgiveness if she should return in
sincerity to a religious life. So on this solemn morning three ancient
females had settled themselves in the drawing-room where Madame Crochard
was "at home" every Tuesday. Each in turn left her armchair to go to the
poor old woman's bedside and sit with her, giving her the false hopes
with which people delude the dying.

At the same time, when the end was drawing near, when the physician
called in the day before would no longer answer for her life, the three
dames took counsel together as to whether it would not be well to
send word to Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Francoise having been duly
informed, it was decided that a commissionaire should go to the Rue
Taitbout to inform the young relation whose influence was so disquieting
to the four women; still, they hoped that the Auvergnat would be too
late in bringing back the person who so certainly held the first
place in the widow Crochard's affections. The widow, evidently in the
enjoyment of a thousand crowns a year, would not have been so fondly
cherished by this feminine trio, but that neither of them, nor Francoise
herself knew of her having any heir. The wealth enjoyed by Mademoiselle
de Bellefeuille, whom Madame Crochard, in obedience to the traditions of
the older opera, never allowed herself to speak of by the affectionate
name of daughter, almost justified the four