He seized the cards, and began to deal them out on the coverlet with his trembling hands.  Madelon placed a small table at his side, put one candle on it, and with the other in her hand stood close to his pillow white and motionless.  Legros slowly and reluctantly drew a chair to the bedside, and sat down opposite.  There was a moment’s pause, whilst M. Linders shifted and sorted his cards, and then, “A vous, Monsieur,” he cried, with a sort of fierce impatience; but at the same instant his hold relaxed, the cards tumbled all in a heap on the floor, his head fell back.  Madelon screamed and started forward, upsetting the table and the candle; Legros sprang up.  It was at that moment that the door opened, and Graham, followed by a Soeur de Charite, entered the room.

Never, to the last day of his life, one may fancy, would Graham forget the little scene before him, which, indeed, always returned to his memory with an impression as vivid as that made upon him now—­the overturned table, the scattered cards, Madelon in her white frock, her pale scared face, her wavy hair, her great brown eyes illuminated by the candle she still held, the terrified Legros, the ghastly look of the dying man—­he saw it all at a glance, as he entered the room he had left so dim and silent but half an hour ago.  It was to Legros he first addressed himself in a tone of strong indignation.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you can have no business to transact with a dying man, and your presence is not desired here.  Might I request you to leave me alone with my patient?”

“On my honour, Monsieur,” cries the other, pale and stammering; “it was no doing of mine—­he would have it so.”

Graham, very likely, did not hear what he said; he was already at M. Linders’ side.  He raised his head, he felt his pulse and heart.

“It is nearly over,” he said to the Soeur de Charite; “will you take the little girl into the next room?” And Madelon, frightened and trembling, offered no resistance as the Soeur took her by the hand and led her away.

It was as Graham said; all was nearly over.  The feeble life, that with careful tending and cherishing might have flickered and lingered on yet a little longer, was all but quenched in this last supreme passion and effort.  M. Linders never spoke again, and died in less than two hours, quietly at last, as men do for the most part die, it is said.

“That poor child!” said Graham, “who will tell her?”

“I will,” said the brave, cheery little Soeur Angelique, and went.

* * * * * *

It was nearly midnight when the sad little bustle that had been going on in the chamber of death was hushed at last, and the Soeur de Charite prepared to depart.  She had offered indeed to stay all night, but when Graham assured her that there was no occasion for any one to remain, as his room was just opposite, and he should be on the watch to see that all was quiet, she owned that she should be glad to go, as there was much illness about, and her services might be required elsewhere.  She stood talking to Graham for a few moments before leaving.