"Kiss her, but do not take her," said the Marquis. "You are not strong enough for that yet."
Tiepoletta understood and obeyed. Then she said gently in bad French:
"My Dolores."
"Dolores! That is a pretty name!" remarked Coursegol, pleased to hear the poor woman speak.
"You will keep her, will you not?" said Tiepoletta, entreatingly. "You will not give her to those who will maltreat her? Make an honest girl of her. Teach her not to scorn the poor gypsies. Tell her that her father and her mother belonged to that despised race."
She uttered these phrases slowly, speaking, not without difficulty, French words that would clearly express her meaning.
"Have no fears," replied Coursegol. "The child shall want for nothing. Rest in peace."
"Yes," she repeated, "rest in death."
"She talks of dying!" exclaimed the Marquis. The words had hardly left his lips when the woman rose and extended her arms. Her features contracted; her large eyes seemed to start from her head; she placed her hand upon her heart, uttered a shrill cry and fell back upon the bed. It was the work of an instant. Coursegol and the Marquis both sprang forward, lifted her, and endeavored to restore her, but in vain. The unfortunate Tiepoletta was dead. Her heart had broken like a fragile vase, shattered by the successive misfortunes she had undergone. A great tear fell from the eyes of Coursegol.