Nance fell sobbing to her knees and buried her face in her hands.
"What," he cried, with unnatural strength, accompanied by flights of fantasy, "have you not heard me say, many's the time, that when I should come to die—"
He stopped long enough to place a hand upon the head of the kneeling girl.
"Ah, Nance, the word must not hurt you.... When I should come to die," he continued, "I hoped to find myself, on passing, in a certain little house in the Rue St. Jacques, with Rogue and Columbine waiting at the door while the good angel would be saying, 'Monsieur Picot, my compliments.... Here, my dear Monsieur, there are no poor, no sick, no broken-hearted. There is nothing at all to be done—no task for the little Abbé of the Church of the Street. Take your blessed caravan and follow le long trimard of your heart's desire.... I—I, eternal Wayfarer, am Death, and this—this is Paradise.'
"Au revoir, my son.... Au revoir, my daughter.... I'm off—off for France!" Here he seemed to gather a moment's strength.... He attempted to sing:
"'Will you buy any tape,
Any lace for——for——'
"I'm off, my dear-a, for Picardy, for beautiful Amiens, Rouen, to black Rennes, for dear old Paris, for the road from Lille to Dunkerque."
Here his voice grew faint and it was with an effort he whispered:
"Sometimes, my dear-a, come here to the green and watch for me as of old.... Who knows? Who knows, my children? Perhaps I shall be gone forever and a day.... Perhaps," and he rose from his pillows, "perhaps—au revoir—
"Rogue, you sacré pig of a zebra, home.... Home!"