the
crowd--besides--it was--to happen--I told Martial so--I had a
presentiment."

"A presentiment?"

"Yes, M. Rodolph--the dream--of the sergeant--last night."

"Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope the wound is not mortal."

"Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never mind--I told Martial that a
worm of the earth like me--might sometimes be useful--to a great
lord--like you."

"But my life--I owe my life again to you!"

"We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me--that I had--heart and honour.
That word, you see--oh, I am choking! Sir, without--my asking--do me the
honour--to give me your hand--I feel I am sinking."

"No, no! Impossible!" exclaimed the prince, bending towards the
Chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man,
"no--you will live--you will live!"

"M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, above--I killed--with a blow
of a knife--I die from the blow of a knife!" said the Chourineur, who
was sinking fast.

At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not
before perceived. Amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made
a movement, and said:

"Ah!--the Goualeuse!"

"Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!"

"She--your daughter--here? That reminds me of how our acquaintance
began--M. Rodolph--and the blows--with the fist; but this blow with a
knife will be the last--last blow. I slashed--and in my turn am
slashed--stabbed. It is just." He heaved a deep sigh--his head fell
back--he was dead.

The sound of horses without was heard; Rodolph's carriage had met that
of Murphy and David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had
anticipated the hour fixed for their departure.

"David," said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the Chourineur,
"is there no hope?"

"None, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after a moment's examination.

During this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between
Fleur-de-Marie and the ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. When the
Chourineur had uttered the name of La Goualeuse, the ogress had raised
her head and looked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag had already
recognised Rodolph; he was called monseigneur--he called La Goualeuse
his daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately
fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim.

Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. The
death of the Chourineur, the unexpected