These words brought the tears to Etienne’s eyes, and he said:—­

“The Ocean did speak to me!”

Mechanically he allowed himself to be led towards the door of the tower which gave entrance to the private way leading to the duchess’s room.  Bertrand was awaiting him, lantern in hand.  Etienne reached the library of the Cardinal d’Herouville, and there he was made to wait with Beauvouloir while Bertrand went on to unlock the other doors, and make sure that the hated son could pass through his father’s house without danger.  The duke did not awake.  Advancing with light steps, Etienne and Beauvouloir heard in that immense chateau no sound but the plaintive groans of the dying woman.  Thus the very circumstances attending the birth of Etienne were renewed at the death of his mother.  The same tempest, same agony, same dread of awaking the pitiless giant, who, on this occasion at least, slept soundly.  Bertrand, as a further precaution, took Etienne in his arms and carried him through the duke’s room, intending to give some excuse as to the state of the duchess if the duke awoke and detected him.  Etienne’s heart was horribly wrung by the same fears which filled the minds of these faithful servants; but this emotion prepared him, in a measure, for the sight that met his eyes in that signorial room, which he had never re-entered since the fatal day when, as a child, the paternal curse had driven him from it.

On the great bed, where happiness never came, he looked for his beloved, and scarcely found her, so emaciated was she.  White as her own laces, with scarcely a breath left, she gathered up all her strength to clasp Etienne’s hand, and to give him her whole soul, as heretofore, in a look.  Chaverny had bequeathed to her all his life in a last farewell.  Beauvouloir and Bertrand, the mother and the sleeping duke were all once more assembled.  Same place, same scene, same actors! but this was funereal grief in place of the joys of motherhood; the night of death instead of the dawn of life.  At that moment the storm, threatened by the melancholy moaning of the sea since sundown, suddenly burst forth.

“Dear flower of my life!” said the mother, kissing her son.  “You were taken from my bosom in the midst of a tempest, and in a tempest I am taken from you.  Between these storms all life has been stormy to me, except the hours I have spent with you.  This is my last joy, mingled with my last pangs.  Adieu, my only love! adieu, dear image of two souls that will soon be reunited!  Adieu, my only joy—­pure joy! adieu, my own beloved!”

“Let me follow thee!” cried Etienne.

“It would be your better fate!” she said, two tears rolling down her livid cheeks; for, as in former days, her eyes seemed to read the future.  “Did any one see him?” she asked of the two men.

At this instant the duke turned in his bed; they all trembled.

“Even my last joy is mingled with pain,” murmured the duchess.  “Take him away! take him away!”