“You will not forget to tell M. Drouet, will you?” I repeated.
“Certainly not. Do not be afraid, M. Réné; I shall not forget it.”
I had such confidence in M. Drouet, that I did not think it necessary to ask him to come. I had only to tell him my sorrow, and I knew that he would come.
As I expected, two hours after, I heard the gallop of a horse. I rushed to the door, and M. Drouet was there.
He had met M. Fortin as he was coming in the same carriage which had taken him to the Federation. He had pressed on his steed; he had seen Marguerite in passing; and in all probability the good priest would be there in an hour, with his housekeeper, to say the prayers for the dead by the bedside of Father Descharmes.
M. Drouet wished to lead me away; but, smiling, in the midst of my tears, “What would my poor uncle say of me on high,” I said, “if any other hand than mine performed the last sad offices for the dead?”
“Do you feel yourself strong enough for it?” asked M. Drouet.
“Is it not my duty?”
“Without doubt. But one cannot always do one’s duty.”
“I hope that heaven will always give me strength enough to perform mine.”