crossed upon his breast, and his features painfully contracted.  A profound and solemn silence reigned in this chamber, only interrupted by the broken sobs of Rose and Blanche, or by Father Simon’s hard breathing.  The eyes of the marshal were dry, gloomy, and full of fire.  He only withdrew them from his father’s face, to interrogate the physician by a look.  There are strange coincidences in life.  That physician was Dr. Baleinier.  The asylum of the doctor being close to the barrier that was nearest to the factory, and his fame being widely spread in the neighborhood, they had run to fetch him on the first call for medical assistance.

Suddenly, Dr. Baleinier made a movement; the marshal, who had not taken his eyes off him, exclaimed:  “Is there any hope?”

“At least, my lord duke, the pulse revives a little.”

“He is saved!” said the marshal.

“Do not cherish false hopes, my lord duke,” answered the doctor, gravely:  “the pulse revives, owing to the powerful applications to the feet, but I know not what will be the issue of the crisis.”

“Father! father! do you hear me?” cried the marshal, seeing the old man slightly move his head, and feebly raise his eyelids.  He soon opened his eyes, and this time their intelligence had returned.

“Father! you live—­you know me!” cried the marshal, giddy with joy and hope.

“Pierre! are you there?” said the old man, in a weak voice.  “Your hand—­give—­it—­” and he made a feeble movement.

“Here, father!” cried the marshal, as he pressed the hands of the old man in his own.

Then, yielding to an impulse of delight, he bent over his father, covered his hands, face, and hair with kisses, and repeated:  “He lives! kind heaven, he lives! he is saved!”

At this instant, the noise of the struggle which had recommenced between the rabble, the Wolves, and the Devourers, reached the ears of the dying man.

“That noise! that noise!” said he:  “they are fighting.”

“It is growing less, I think,” said the marshal, in order not to agitate his father.

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a weak and broken voice, “I have not long to live.”

“Father—­”

“Let me speak, child; if I can but tell you all.”

“Sir,” said Baleinier piously to the old workman, “heaven may perhaps work a miracle in your favor; show yourself grateful, and allow a priest—­”

“A priest!  Thank you, sir—­I have my son,” said the old man; “in his arms, I will render up my soul—­which has always been true and honest.”

“You die?” exclaimed the marshal; “no! no!”

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a voice which, firm at first, gradually grew fainter, “just now—­you ask my advice in a very serious matter.  I think, that the wish to tell you of your duty—­has recalled me—­for a moment—­to life—­for I should die miserable—­if I thought you in a road unworthy of yourself and me.  Listen to me, my son—­my noble son—­at this last hour, a father cannot deceive himself.  You have a great duty to perform—–­under pain—­of not acting like a man of honor—­under pain of neglecting my last will.  You ought, without hesitation—­”