“Three days afterwards he was in his grave,” said Mrs. Bread, sententiously.  “In a little while I went away to the front of the house and looked out into the court, and there, before long, I saw Mr. Urbain ride in alone.  I waited a bit, to hear him come upstairs with his mother, but they stayed below, and I went back to the marquis’s room.  I went to the bed and held up the light to him, but I don’t know why I didn’t let the candlestick fall.  The marquis’s eyes were open—­open wide! they were staring at me.  I knelt down beside him and took his hands, and begged him to tell me, in the name of wonder, whether he was alive or dead.  Still he looked at me a long time, and then he made me a sign to put my ear close to him:  ‘I am dead,’ he said, ’I am dead.  The marquise has killed me.’  I was all in a tremble; I didn’t understand him.  He seemed both a man and a corpse, if you can fancy, sir.  ’But you’ll get well now, sir,’ I said.  And then he whispered again, ever so weak; ’I wouldn’t get well for a kingdom.  I wouldn’t be that woman’s husband again.’  And then he said more; he said she had murdered him.  I asked him what she had done to him, but he only replied, ’Murder, murder.  And she’ll kill my daughter,’ he said; ‘my poor unhappy child.’  And he begged me to prevent that, and then he said that he was dying, that he was dead.  I was afraid to move or to leave him; I was almost dead myself.  All of a sudden he asked me to get a pencil and write for him; and then I had to tell him that I couldn’t manage a pencil.  He asked me to hold him up in bed while he wrote himself, and I said he could never, never do such a thing.  But he seemed to have a kind of terror that gave him strength.  I found a pencil in the room and a piece of paper and a book, and I put the paper on the book and the pencil into his hand, and moved the candle near him.  You will think all this very strange, sir; and very strange it was.  The strangest part of it was that I believed he was dying, and that I was eager to help him to write.  I sat on the bed and put my arm round him, and held him up.  I felt very strong; I believe I could have lifted him and carried him.  It was a wonder how he wrote, but he did write, in a big scratching hand; he almost covered one side of the paper.  It seemed a long time; I suppose it was three or four minutes.  He was groaning, terribly, all the while.  Then he said it was ended, and I let him down upon his pillows and he gave me the paper and told me to fold it, and hide it, and give it to those who would act upon it.  ‘Whom do you mean?’ I said.  ’Who are those who will act upon it?’ But he only groaned, for an answer; he couldn’t speak, for weakness.  In a few minutes he told me to go and look at the bottle on the chimney-piece.  I knew the bottle he meant; the white stuff that was good for his stomach.  I went and looked at it, but it was empty.  When I came back his eyes were open and he was staring at me; but soon he closed them and he said no more.  I hid the paper in my