"Take him away! Do not let him see this! Take him away!"
Some people took me by the arms; then I grew indignant, and I cried:
"No, sir; I will not be taken away! I want to stay, she is my daughter! Have you children, that you tell them to take me away? I want to save her! I want to defend her!"
"Let him alone," said the doctor, sadly; "let the poor fellow alone. But you must be silent," he said to me; "your cries may kill her."
I fell back in my seat, murmuring:
"I will not cry out any more, sir; I will say nothing. Only let me stay by her; I will be very quiet."
A few minutes after, Dr. Carriére left the room, making a sign to the others to withdraw.
A great many people followed him, a small number remained. I saw them moving to and fro, arranging the bed and raising the pillows, whispering among themselves. The silence was profound. Time passed. A priest appeared with his assistants; they began to pray in Latin. It was the last offices of the church. The good women, kneeling, uttered the responses.
All disappeared. It was then about five o'clock in the evening. The lamp was lighted. I rose softly and approached the bed.
My daughter, looking as beautiful as an angel, her eyes half open, still breathed; I called her in a whisper: "Marie-Rose! Marie-Rose!" crying bitterly as I spoke.