At the sight of Madam Lebrenn, the poor creature endeavored to smile. She gathered all the strength she could, and said in a faint and broken voice:
"Madam—I asked to see you—before I die—in order to tell you—the truth about George. I was an orphan; I worked at flower-making. I had suffered a good deal—underwent untold privations—but still I kept my character. I should also say, so as not to praise myself too highly, I had never been tempted," she added with a bitter sigh; and then she smiled: "I met George upon his return from the army—I fell in love with him—I loved him—Oh! I loved him dearly—let that pass—he was the only one—perhaps it was because he never became my lover. I am sure I loved him more than he loved me. He was better than I—it was out of kindness that he offered to marry me. Unfortunately, a girl friend crossed my way and led me astray. She had been a working girl, like myself—and misery had driven her to sell herself! I saw her rich, well dressed—well fed—she urged me to do as she had done—my head turned—I forgot George—but not for long—but for nothing in the world would I have dared to appear before him again. Occasionally, nevertheless, I would come to this street—seeking to catch a glimpse of him. I saw him more than once at work in your shop, madam—and talking to your daughter, who seemed to me very beautiful—Oh, as beautiful as the day! A presentiment told me George was bound to fall in love with her. I watched him—more than once, recently, I saw him early in the morning at his window—looking across the street at yours. Yesterday morning I was with someone—"
A feeble blush of shame colored for an instant the pallid cheeks of the dying girl. She dropped her eyes, and presently proceeded in a voice that was fast sinking:
"There—accidentally—I learned that that person—found your daughter—very beautiful, and—knowing that that person is utterly—reckless of consequences—I feared for your daughter and for George—I tried—yesterday—to notify him—he was not at home; I wrote to him—asking to see him, without stating my reasons—This morning—I went out—without knowing—that there—were barricades—and—"
The young girl could not finish; her head fell back; mechanically she raised both her hands to the wound on her bosom, heaved a sigh of profound grief, and stammered a few unintelligible words. Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn wept in silence as they contemplated her.
"Josephine," said George, "do you suffer much?" And covering his eyes with his hands he added: "This mortal wound—was received by her in the attempt to save my life!"
"George—George," muttered the dying girl almost inaudibly, as her eyes roved aimlessly about, "George—you—do—not know—"
And she began to laugh.
That laugh of death was heartrending.
"Poor child! Come to your senses," pleaded Madam Lebrenn.