desert me. What,
Monsieur l'Abbe, do you think I shall be called to account for my
daughter's soul?"

The Abbe spoke too low, and the partition was too thick for Francoise to
hear the reply.

"Alas!" sobbed the woman, "the wretch has left me nothing that I can
bequeath. When he robbed me of my dear Caroline, he parted us, and only
allowed me three thousand francs a year, of which the capital belongs to
my daughter."

"Madame has a daughter, and nothing to live on but an annuity," shrieked
Francoise, bursting into the drawing-room.

The three old crones looked at each other in dismay. One of them, whose
nose and chin nearly met with an expression that betrayed a superior
type of hypocrisy and cunning, winked her eyes; and as soon as
Francoise's back was turned, she gave her friends a nod, as much as to
say, "That slut is too knowing by half; her name has figured in three
wills already."

So the three old dames sat on.

However, the Abbe presently came out, and at a word from him the witches
scuttered down the stairs at his heels, leaving Francoise alone with her
mistress. Madame Crochard, whose sufferings increased in severity, rang,
but in vain, for this woman, who only called out, "Coming, coming--in
a minute!" The doors of cupboards and wardrobes were slamming as though
Francoise were hunting high and low for a lost lottery ticket.

Just as this crisis was at a climax, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille came
to stand by her mother's bed, lavishing tender words on her.

"Oh my dear mother, how criminal I have been! You are ill, and I did not
know it; my heart did not warn me. However, here I am--"

"Caroline--"

"What is it?"

"They fetched a priest--"

"But send for a doctor, bless me!" cried Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille.
"Francoise, a doctor! How is it that these ladies never sent for a
doctor?"

"They sent for a priest----" repeated the old woman with a gasp.

"She is so ill--and no soothing draught, nothing on her table!"

The mother made a vague sign, which Caroline's watchful eye understood,
for she was silent to let her mother speak.

"They brought a priest--to hear my confession, as they said.--Beware,
Caroline!" cried the old woman with an effort, "the priest made me tell
him your benefactor's name."

"But who can have told you, poor mother?"

The old woman died, trying to look knowingly cunning. If Mademoiselle de
Bellefeuille had noted her mother's face she might have seen what no one
eve