“The hour has come, dear children,” she said gently, “when we must say farewell.  You are all here”—­she looked about her—­“and he...”  Marguerite sent Emmanuel for her father, and Balthazar’s answer to the summons was, “I am coming.”

When Emmanuel returned, Madame Claes sent him for his uncle the priest, bidding him take the two boys with him; then she turned to her daughters.  “God is taking me,” she said.  “What will become of you?  When I am gone, Marguerite, if you are ever in need of food, read this letter which I have addressed to you.  Love your father, but shield your sister and your brothers.  It may be your duty to withstand him.  He will want money; he will ask you for it.  Do not forget your duty to your father, but remember your duty to your sister and brothers.  Your father would not injure his children of set purpose.  He is noble, he is good.  He is full of love for you.  He is a great man working at a great task.  Fill my place.  Do not cause him grief by reproaches; never judge him; be, between him and those in your charge, a gentle mediator.”

One of the servants had to go and bang on the laboratory door for Claes.  “Madame is dying!” cried the indignant old body.  “They are waiting for you to administer the last sacrament.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” answered Claes.  When he entered the room, the Abbe de Solis and the children were kneeling round the mother’s bed.  His wife’s face flushed at his entrance.  With a loving smile, she asked:  “Were you on the point of resolving nitrogen?”

“I have done it!” he answered, with triumph; “nitrogen is made up of
oxygen and------” He stopped, checked by a murmur, which roused him from
his dream.  “What did they say?” he asked.  “Are you really worse?  What
has happened?”

“This has happened,” said the Abbe; “your wife is dying, and you have killed her.”

Priest and children withdrew.

“What does he mean?” asked Claes.

“Dearest,” she answered, “your love was my life; I could not live without it.”

He took her hand, and kissed it.

“When have I not loved you?” he asked.

She refused to utter a reproach.  For her children’s sake she told the narrative of his six years’ search for the Absolute, which had destroyed her life and swallowed up two million francs, making him see the horror of their desolation.  “Have pity, have pity,” she cried, “on our children!”

Claes shouted for Lemulquinier, and bade him go instantly to the laboratory and smash everything.  “I abandon science for ever!” he cried.

“Too late!” sighed the dying woman; then she cried, “Marguerite!”

The child came from the doorway, horrified by the stricken face of her mother.  Once again the loved name was repeated, “Marguerite!” loudly, as though to fix in her mind the charge laid upon her soul.  It was the last word uttered by Josephine.  As the soul passed, Balthazar, from the foot of the bed, looked up to the pillows where Marguerite was sitting, and their eyes met.  The father trembled.