"Now I can die in peace!" exclaimed the countess. And before the marquis could prevent it, she had pressed her cold lips upon the hand he had offered her; and, from this manifestation of ineffable gratitude, M. de Maillefort was convinced that the person in question was indeed Madame de Beaumesnil's illegitimate child.
All at once, either because so much violent emotion had exhausted the invalid's strength, or because her malady—concealed for a time by an apparent improvement in the sufferer's condition—had attained its height, Madame de Beaumesnil made a sudden movement, at the same time uttering a cry of agony.
"Good God, madame, what is it?" cried the marquis, terrified at the sudden alteration in Madame de Beaumesnil's features.
"It is nothing," she answered, heroically, "a slight pain, that is all. But here, take this key,—quick, I beg of you," she added, drawing out a key from under her pillow and handing it to him.
"Open—that—secretary," she gasped.
The marquis obeyed.
"There is a purse in the middle drawer. Do you see it?"
"Yes, here it is."
"Keep it, I beg of you. It contains a sum of money which I have a perfect right to dispose of. It will at least save the young girl I commended to your care from want. Only promise me," continued the poor mother, her voice becoming more and more feeble each moment,—"promise me that you will never mention my name to—to this orphan—nor tell her who it was that asked you to place this money in her hands. But tell her, oh, tell this unfortunate child that she was tenderly loved until the last, and that—that it was absolutely necessary—"
The countess was so weak now that the conclusion of the sentence was inaudible.