And now she would be the first to die.

She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak: 

“Send at once for the priest.”

And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her lips moving as if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her heart, her face expressive of a terror distressing to witness.

Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept bitterly, repeating over and over again the words: 

“Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!”

She had always called her “my little one,” while Marguerite’s name for the elder was invariably “sister.”

A footstep sounded on the stairs.  The door opened.  An acolyte appeared, followed by the aged priest in his surplice.  As soon as she saw him the dying woman sat up suddenly in bed, opened her lips, stammered a few words and began to scratch the bed-clothes, as if she would have made hole in them.

Father Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her on the forehead and said in a gentle voice: 

“May God pardon your sins, my daughter.  Be of good courage.  Now is the moment to confess them—­speak!”

Then Marguerite, shuddering from head to foot, so that the very bed shook with her nervous movements, gasped: 

“Sit down, sister, and listen.”

The priest stooped toward the prostrate Suzanne, raised her to her feet, placed her in a chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters, pronounced: 

“Lord God!  Send them strength!  Shed Thy mercy upon them.”

And Marguerite began to speak.  The words issued from her lips one by one—­hoarse, jerky, tremulous.

“Pardon, pardon, sister! pardon me!  Oh, if only you knew how I have dreaded this moment all my life!”

Suzanne faltered through her tears: 

“But what have I to pardon, little one?  You have given me everything, sacrificed all to me.  You are an angel.”

But Marguerite interrupted her: 

“Be silent, be silent!  Let me speak!  Don’t stop me!  It is terrible.  Let me tell all, to the very end, without interruption.  Listen.  You remember—­you remember—­Henry—­”

Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister.  The younger one went on: 

“In order to understand you must hear everything.  I was twelve years old—­only twelve—­you remember, don’t you?  And I was spoilt; I did just as I pleased.  You remember how everybody spoilt me?  Listen.  The first time he came he had on his riding boots; he dismounted, saying that he had a message for father.  You remember, don’t you?  Don’t speak.  Listen.  When I saw him I was struck with admiration.  I thought him so handsome, and I stayed in a corner of the drawing-room all the time he was talking.  Children are strange—­and terrible.  Yes, indeed, I dreamt of him.

“He came again—­many times.  I looked at him with all my eyes, all my heart.  I was large for my age and much more precocious than—­any one suspected.  He came often.  I thought only of him.  I often whispered to myself: