Agathe Bridau, nee Rouget

Two days later the concierge brought to the atelier, where poor Agathe was breakfasting with Joseph, the following terrible letter:—­

  My dear Mother,—­A man does not marry a Mademoiselle Amelie de
  Soulanges without the purse of Fortunatus, if under the name of
  Comte de Brambourg he hides that of

  Your son,

  Philippe Bridau

As Agathe fell half-fainting on the sofa, the letter dropped to the floor.  The slight noise made by the paper, and the smothered but dreadful exclamation which escaped Agathe startled Joseph, who had forgotten his mother for a moment and was vehemently rubbing in a sketch; he leaned his head round the edge of his canvas to see what had happened.  The sight of his mother stretched out on the floor made him drop palette and brushes, and rush to lift what seemed a lifeless body.  He took Agathe in his arms and carried her to her own bed, and sent the servant for his friend Horace Bianchon.  As soon as he could question his mother she told him of her letter to Philippe, and of the answer she had received from him.  The artist went to his atelier and picked up the letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender heart of the poor mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her maternal preference had erected.  When Joseph returned to her bedside he had the good feeling to be silent.  He did not speak of his brother in the three weeks during which—­we will not say the illness, but—­the death agony of the poor woman lasted.  Bianchon, who came every day and watched his patient with the devotion of a true friend, told Joseph the truth on the first day of her seizure.

“At her age,” he said, “and under the circumstances which have happened to her, all we can hope to do is to make her death as little painful as possible.”

She herself felt so surely called of God that she asked the next day for the religious help of old Abbe Loraux, who had been her confessor for more than twenty-two years.  As soon as she was alone with him, and had poured her griefs into his heart, she said—­as she had said to Madame Hochon, and had repeated to herself again and again throughout her life:—­

“What have I done to displease God?  Have I not loved Him with all my soul?  Have I wandered from the path of grace?  What is my sin?  Can I be guilty of wrong when I know not what it is?  Have I the time to repair it?”

“No,” said the old man, in a gentle voice.  “Alas! your life seems to have been pure and your soul spotless; but the eye of God, poor afflicted creature, is keener than that of his ministers.  I see the truth too late; for you have misled even me.”

Hearing these words from lips that had never spoken other than peaceful and pleasant words to her, Agathe rose suddenly in her bed and opened her eyes wide, with terror and distress.

“Tell me! tell me!” she cried.