I had placed myself close to her; she had a consuming fever, her eyes glistened.  I begged her to consent to take the absolute rest which was alone suitable to her condition.

“What is the use?” she replied.  “I am not ill.  It is not the fever that is killing me, nor the cold, it is the thought that is burning me there;”—­she touched her forehead—­“it is shame—­it is your scorn and your hatred; now, alas! but too well deserved!”

My heart overflowed then, Paul; I told her everything; my passion, my regrets, my remorse!  I covered with kisses her trembling hands, her cold forehead, her damp hair.  I poured into her poor shattered soul all the tenderness, all the pity, all the adoration a man’s soul can contain!  She knew now that I loved her; she could not doubt it!

She listened to me with rapture.  “Now,” she said, “now, I am no longer to be pitied.  I have never been so happy in all my life.  I did not deserve it—­I have nothing further to wish—­nothing further to hope—­I shall not regret anything.”

She fell into a slumber.  Her parted lips are smiling a pure and placid smile; but she is taken at intervals with terrible spasms, and her features are becoming terribly altered.  I am watching her while writing these lines.

* * * * *

Madame de Malouet has just arrived with her husband.  I had judged her rightly!  Her voice and her words were those of a mother.  She had taken care to bring her physician.  The patient is lying in a comfortable bed, surrounded by loving and attentive friends.  I feel more easy, although she has just awakened with a fearful delirium.

Madame de Pontbrian has positively refused to come to her niece.  I had judged her rightly too, the excellent Christian!

I have deemed it my duty not to set foot again in the cell which Madame de Malouet no longer leaves.  The expression of M. de Malouet’s countenance terrifies me, and yet he assures me that the physician has not yet pronounced.

* * * * *

The doctor has just come out; I have spoken to him.

“It is pneumonia,” he told me, “complicated with brain fever.”

“It is very serious, is it not?”

“Very serious.”

“But is there any immediate danger?”

“I’ll tell you that to-night.  Her condition is so acute that it cannot last long.  Either the crisis must abate or nature must yield.”

He looked up to heaven and went off.

I know not what is going on within me, my friend—­all these blows are striking me in such rapid succession.  It is the lightning!

FIVE O’CLOCK P.M.

The old priest whom I have often met at the chateau has been sent for in haste.  He is a friend of Madame de Malouet, a simple old man, full of charity; I dared not question him.  I know not what is going on.  I fear to hear, and yet my ear catches eagerly the least noises, the most insignificant sounds; a closing door, a rapid step on the stairs strikes me dumb with terror.  And yet—­so quick! it seems impossible!