She opened her eyes and gazed at me with a smile of ineffable sweetness.
“It is better so,” she whispered. “I was not of your world, M. Pierre, and now I shall not have to live when you are gone.”
The hot tears were on my cheeks as I looked at her, and she raised her hand to my face with a gesture of tenderness inexpressible.
“Are those tears for me?” she asked. “Oh, how glad I am that you care enough to weep! I am not sorry to die. I had never dreamed that I should have the joy of dying in your arms like this, with your dear eyes looking down upon me. And you will soon dry your tears, M. Pierre, when you look upon another face more beautiful—oh, a thousand times more beautiful than mine.”
I opened my mouth, but could not speak. I felt her body stiffening in my arms.
“You told me,” she whispered, “that you loved her enough to die for her, M. Pierre. But I love you more than that—oh, so much more than that! I love you enough to give you to another, M. Pierre—to die that she may possess you.”
She gazed at me a moment longer, then her eyes slowly closed, her lips parted in a sigh that bore her spirit with it. I was sobbing wildly as I laid the little form reverently upon the pallet in one corner and turned to go. As I did so I fancied I saw Mère Fouchon move.
“So you are not dead,” I said, speaking aloud as though she could hear me. “Well, you shall not escape,” and catching her by the arm, I dragged her within the cell and shut the door. As I pushed it into place, I saw that by swinging back two slabs of stone, the door was masked, and the wall of the cellar was apparently unbroken. I trembled as I thought what my fate would have been had Mère Fouchon thrown those stones into place and gone away.
As I turned again into the outer room my eyes fell upon the bag which she had placed on the table. I opened it and was astonished to find it full of gold. I understood in a moment. It was the price Ribaut had paid for Nanette.
“Come,” I said, “I will take this with me. It will be proof of my story.”