“He had to love if he had been loved.”

“A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future.”

“You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, and you do not look forward to a future.”

“Yes, Remy, I do,” cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; “but listen! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Can it be ours?”

“It is possible; but it is an hour too soon.”

“It stops at the door, Remy.”

Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on the door.

“Who is there?” said he.

“I!” replied a trembling voice, “I, Grandchamp, the baron’s valet.”

“Ah! mon Dieu!  Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low!  Whence do you come?”

“From Meridor.  Alas, dear M. Remy!”

“Well,” cried the lady from the top of the stairs, “are they our horses,
Remy?”

“No, madame, it is not them.  What is it, Grandchamp?”

“You do not guess?”

“Alas!  I do; what will she do, poor lady.”

“Remy,” cried she again, “you are talking to some one?”

“Yes, madame.”

“I thought I knew the voice.”

“Indeed, madame.”

She now descended, saying: 

“Who is there?  Grandchamp?”

“Yes, madame, it is I,” replied the old man sadly, uncovering his white head.

“Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my father is dead?”

“Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master.”

Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her and took her hand softly.

“How did he die; tell me, my friend?” said she.

“Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was struck a week ago by an attack of apoplexy.  He muttered your name for the last time, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more.”

Diana went up again without another word.  Her room was on the first story, and looked only into a courtyard.  The furniture was somber, but rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of our Saviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twisted columns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of the room.  Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a portrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes, but a sad heart.  She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribable love.  It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked on a bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right hand hung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword.  His eyes were closed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to his face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only at the moment of quitting life for eternity.  Under the portrait, in letters red as blood, was written, “Aut Caesar aut nihil.”  The lady extended her arm, and spoke as though it could hear her.