care of him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my lady had almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend.  He got better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger.  What was killing him was the dreadful fits of pain in his stomach.  But little by little they stopped, and the poor marquis began to make his jokes again.  The doctor found something that gave him great comfort—­some white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece.  I used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him easier.  Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on giving him the mixture whenever he was bad.  After that there was a little doctor from Poitiers, who came every day.  So we were alone in the house—­my lady and her poor husband and their three children.  Young Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl, to her mothers.  You know she is very lively, and her maid told me that she didn’t like to be where people were dying.”  Mrs. Bread paused a moment, and then she went on with the same quiet consistency.  “I think you have guessed, sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady was disappointed.”  And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face which seemed to grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them.

Newman had listened eagerly—­with an eagerness greater even than that with which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde’s last words.  Every now and then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded him of an ancient tabby cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk.  Even her triumph was measured and decorous; the faculty of exultation had been chilled by disuse.  She presently continued.  “Late one night I was sitting by the marquis in his room, the great red room in the west tower.  He had been complaining a little, and I gave him a spoonful of the doctor’s dose.  My lady had been there in the early part of the evening; she sat far more than an hour by his bed.  Then she went away and left me alone.  After midnight she came back, and her eldest son was with her.  They went to the bed and looked at the marquis, and my lady took hold of his hand.  Then she turned to me and said he was not so well; I remember how the marquis, without saying anything, lay staring at her.  I can see his white face, at this moment, in the great black square between the bed-curtains.  I said I didn’t think he was very bad; and she told me to go to bed—­she would sit a while with him.  When the marquis saw me going he gave a sort of groan, and called out to me not to leave him; but Mr. Urbain opened the door for me and pointed the way out.  The present marquis—­perhaps you have noticed, sir—­has a very proud way of giving orders, and I was there to take orders.  I went to my room, but I wasn’t easy; I couldn’t tell you why.  I didn’t undress; I sat there waiting and listening.  For what, would you have said, sir?  I couldn’t have told you; for surely a poor gentleman might be comfortable with