It was M. Deshoulières knocking sharply at the door. Madame Roulleau, rigid and defiant again, opened it; the little notary shrank further into the corner; the doctor entered hastily.
“Mademoiselle Thérèse?” he said, looking round. “Ah, madame, may I ask you to request her to descend at once. I bring news, or, believe me, I would not incommode you at such a time.”
“What news, monsieur?” asked madame, still erect.
“Monsieur Saint-Martin has arrived.”
Her head sank, she went out of the room and up the stairs slowly. There was a tempest in her heart when she opened the door of the sick-room. It was all very solemn and quiet, solemn with the foreshadowing of that quietness which is infinite. The child lay on the little white bed, Thérèse knelt by its side, the persiennes were half closed, one quivering ray of sunlight touched the girl’s head, the sweet young face was full of tender sorrow. For a moment she stood speechless, watching; the next Thérèse heard a sharp keen voice in her ear:—
“Why do you look like that, you! He is mine, I will not have you take away his love. And I have hated you and done you all the harm I could—do you hear?”
“Hush, hush, madame,” said Thérèse softly. She looked at her, and knew that this woman in her strange excitement was speaking truth; at another time she might have been angry at the confession, but for weeks past she had been walking on the borders of that land where wrath and bitterness are hushed. She lifted her hand and pointed to the little face on the pillow. Madame dared not speak, she fell on her knees and trembled. Thérèse gently drew back the persiennes; a sweet cool breeze came into the room, the plains were all steeped in a kind of subdued sunshine, silvery, and broken with clouds. There were long shadows on the roofs and gables, birds singing in the gardens of the Evêché; presently the murmur of a distant chant came swinging up from the Cathedral, where all the windows were open. No service was going on, but the choristers were practising a requiem, very sad and sweet, yet now and then breaking into triumphant chorus. Thérèse fancied she caught the words,—“requiem, dona eis requiem,” shrill, clear, boyish voices answering one another. Rest was very near one of the three in that room. She touched madame, and said, “See, I think he knows us.”
Yes. For the last time the dim eyes turned and looked into theirs,—for the last time the little weak hand just moved as if to seek their clasp; the little voice, so strangely pathetic in its hoarse unchildlike accent, tried to reach Thérèse. For the last time. After that there was peace—the peace echoed by the choristers in the Cathedral—the peace that could never any more be broken. So best!