Gilbert ran to his patient.
"Put the casket back," said he in a faint voice. "Odd, is it not?" he continued, seeing how astonished the doctor looked at its being as heavy as before, "but where the deuce will disinterestedness next have a nest?"
Near the bed, Gilbert picked up a lace handkerchief wet with tears.
"Ah, she would take nothing away—but she left something," remarked Mirabeau.
Feeling it was damp he pressed it to his forehead.
"Tears? is she the only one who has a heart?" he murmured.
He fell back on the bed, with closed eyes; he might have been believed dead or swooning but for the death-rattle in his breast.
How came it that this man of athletic, herculean build should die?
Was it not because he had held out his hand to stay the tumbling throne from toppling over? Was it not because he had offered his arm to that woman of misfortune known as Marie Antoinette?