The archbishop bowed his head; he could not speak; his eyes were full of tears.  Every one sat down, or leaned against the balustrade, absorbed in his own thought.  The church bells presently sent forth a few sad calls, and then the whole population were seen hurrying toward the porch.  The gleam of the lighted tapers shone through the trees in Monsieur Bonnet’s garden; the chants resounded.  No color was left in the landscape but the dull red hue of the dusk; even the birds had hushed their songs; the tree-frog alone sent forth its long, clear, melancholy note.

“I will go and do my duty,” said the archbishop, turning away with a slow step like a man overcome with emotion.

The consultation had taken place in the great salon of the chateau.  This vast room communicated with a state bedchamber, furnished in red damask, in which Graslin had displayed a certain opulent magnificence.  Veronique had not entered it six times in fourteen years; the grand apartments were quite useless to her, and she never received her friends there.  But now the effort she had made to accomplish her last obligation, and to overcome her last repugnance had exhausted her strength, and she was wholly unable to mount the stairs to her own rooms.

When the illustrious physician had taken the patient’s hand and felt her pulse he looked at Monsieur Roubaud and made him a sign; then together they lifted her and carried her into the chamber.  Aline hastily opened the doors.  Like all state beds the one in this room had no sheets, and the two doctors laid Madame Graslin on the damask coverlet.  Roubaud opened the windows, pushed back the outer blinds, and called.  The servants and Madame Sauviat went in.  The tapers in the candelabra were lighted.

“It is ordained,” said the dying woman, smiling, “that my death shall be what that of a Christian should be—­a festival!”

During the consultation she said:—­

“The procureur-general has done his professional duty; I was going, and he has pushed me on.”

The old mother looked at her and laid a finger on her lips.

“Mother, I shall speak,” replied Veronique.  “See! the hand of God is in all this; I am dying in a red room—­”

Madame Sauviat went out, unable to bear those words.

“Aline,” she said, “she will speak! she will speak!”

“Ah! madame is out of her mind,” cried the faithful maid, who was bringing sheets.  “Fetch the rector, madame.”

“Your mistress must be undressed,” said Bianchon to the maid.

“It will be very difficult to do it, monsieur; madame is wrapped in a hair-cloth garment.”

“What! in the nineteenth-century can such horrors be revived?” said the great doctor.

“Madame Graslin has never allowed me to touch her stomach,” said Roubaud.  “I have been able to judge of the progress of the disease only from her face and her pulse, and the little information I could get from her mother and the maid.”