“He is sleeping,” said Honore.  “Maman, Madame Nancanou.”

The ladies bowed—­the one looking very large and splendid, the other very sweet and small.  There was a single instant of silence, and Aurora burst into tears.

For a moment Madame Grandissime assumed a frown that was almost a reminder of her brother’s, and then the very pride of the Fusiliers broke down.  She uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly into her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet with majesty, whispered, laying her hand on Aurora’s head: 

“Never mind, my child; never mind; never mind.”

And Honore’s sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed Aurora and murmured: 

“The good God bless thee!  It is He who has brought us together.”

“Who is with him just now?” whispered the two other ladies, while Honore and his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation.

“My daughter,” said Aurora, “and—­”

“Agamemnon,” suggested Madame Martinez.

“I believe so,” said Aurora.

Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned to Honore.  Doctor Keene did the same and continued to advance.

“Awake?” asked Honore.

“Yes.”

“Alas! my brother!” said Madame Grandissime, and started forward, followed by the other women.

“Wait,” said Honore, and they paused.  “Charlie,” he said, as the little doctor persistently pushed by him at the head of the stair.

“Oh, there’s no chance, Honore, you’d as well all go in there.”

They gathered into the room and about the bed.  Madame Grandissime bent over it.

“Ah! sister,” said the dying man, “is that you?  I had the sweetest dream just now—­just for a minute.”  He sighed.  “I feel very weak.  Where is Charlie Keene?”

He had spoken in French; he repeated his question in English.  He thought he saw the doctor.

“Charlie, if I must meet the worst I hope you will tell me so; I am fully prepared.  Ah! excuse—­I thought it was—­

“My eyes seem dim this evening. Est-ce-vous, Honore?  Ah, Honore, you went over to the enemy, did you?—­Well,—­the Fusilier blood would al—­ways—­do as it pleased.  Here’s your old uncle’s hand, Honore.  I forgive you, Honore—­my noble-hearted, foolish—­boy.”  He spoke feebly, and with great nervousness.

“Water.”

It was given him by Aurora.  He looked in her face; they could not be sure whether he recognized her or not.  He sank back, closed his eyes, and said, more softly and dreamily, as if to himself, “I forgive everybody.  A man must die—­I forgive—­even the enemies—­of Louisiana.”

He lay still a few moments, and then revived excitedly.  “Honore! tell Professor Frowenfeld to take care of that Philippique Generale.  ’Tis a grand thing, Honore, on a grand theme!  I wrote it myself in one evening.  Your Yankee Government is a failure, Honore, a drivelling failure.  It may live a year or two, not longer.  Truth will triumph.  The old Louisiana will rise again.  She will get back her trampled rights.  When she does, remem’—­” His voice failed, but he held up one finger firmly by way of accentuation.