After a moment he began anew. “It was the Dutchman she loved, I know that now. I did not think so at first; but, though I did not love her, I hated him.”
“Madam,” said Johanna, in a low voice, “this is something it were better you did not hear. Will you go away?” The pity lingered in Madam’s eyes; as yet she did not understand, and she remained.
“The Dutch pig,” repeated François, “that Verplanck. You are safe now, Monsieur Le Bœuf.”
Madam De Vries recoiled, all the softness in her face giving place to horror. “Beast!” she cried. “Beast! And I have pitied you.”
“He may be dying, madam,” said Madam van der Deen, quietly. “Will you leave us?”
Madam De Vries opened her lips as if to speak, but without another word she walked away.
François kept up his whispering talk. “Poor little Alaine. I liked the girl. I would have been kind to her. You who know me, mother, you believe that. Say that you believe that.”
“Yes.” Madam van der Deen saw that he waited for a reply.
François closed his eyes; he did not seem to hear; his voice was very weak. “I stayed there in Quebec for France, for France. I have lied for her, I have suffered for her, and now I die for her. For France.” His voice died away and he could say no more. He lay very still, and Madam van der Deen by his side watched him all day. Once or twice Trynje came to bring word of Alaine, who tossed in fever and babbled incessantly.
Night came, and still François lived. “It would almost seem as if he might recover,” Madam van der Deen said to her husband as they examined him.