The servants, in horror, refused to go into the room of either their master or mistress; they thought only of themselves, and judged their betters as righteously stricken.  The smell was so foul that in spite of open windows and strong perfumes, no one could remain long in Valerie’s room.  Religion alone kept guard there.

How could a woman so clever as Valerie fail to ask herself to what end these two representatives of the Church remained with her?  The dying woman had listened to the words of the priest.  Repentance had risen on her darkened soul as the devouring malady had consumed her beauty.  The fragile Valerie had been less able to resist the inroads of the disease than Crevel; she would be the first to succumb, and, indeed, had been the first attacked.

“If I had not been ill myself, I would have come to nurse you,” said Lisbeth at last, after a glance at her friend’s sunken eyes.  “I have kept my room this fortnight or three weeks; but when I heard of your state from the doctor, I came at once.”

“Poor Lisbeth, you at least love me still, I see!” said Valerie.  “Listen.  I have only a day or two left to think, for I cannot say to live.  You see, there is nothing left of me—­I am a heap of mud!  They will not let me see myself in a glass.—­Well, it is no more than I deserve.  Oh, if I might only win mercy, I would gladly undo all the mischief I have done.”

“Oh!” said Lisbeth, “if you can talk like that, you are indeed a dead woman.”

“Do not hinder this woman’s repentance, leave her in her Christian mind,” said the priest.

“There is nothing left!” said Lisbeth in consternation.  “I cannot recognize her eyes or her mouth!  Not a feature of her is there!  And her wit has deserted her!  Oh, it is awful!”

“You don’t know,” said Valerie, “what death is; what it is to be obliged to think of the morrow of your last day on earth, and of what is to be found in the grave.—­Worms for the body—­and for the soul, what?—­Lisbeth, I know there is another life!  And I am given over to terrors which prevent my feeling the pangs of my decomposing body.—­I, who could laugh at a saint, and say to Crevel that the vengeance of God took every form of disaster.—­Well, I was a true prophet.—­Do not trifle with sacred things, Lisbeth; if you love me, repent as I do.”

“I!” said Lisbeth.  “I see vengeance wherever I turn in nature; insects even die to satisfy the craving for revenge when they are attacked.  And do not these gentlemen tell us”—­and she looked at the priest —­“that God is revenged, and that His vengeance lasts through all eternity?”

The priest looked mildly at Lisbeth and said: 

“You, madame, are an atheist!”

“But look what I have come to,” said Valerie.

“And where did you get this gangrene?” asked the old maid, unmoved from her peasant incredulity.

“I had a letter from Henri which leaves me in no doubt as to my fate.  He has murdered me.  And—­just when I meant to live honestly—­to die an object of disgust!