“She sat upright in bed, supported by pillows: her hands convulsively clasped on her sunken chest, her sad blue eyes fixed on vacancy, as if seeking to penetrate the impenetrable mysteries of eternity; her long hair, escaped from its confinement, strayed wildly around her shoulders: thus she sat, motionless and silent, for several hours, though not speechless; she retained her voice and senses to the last.
“Little Lelia sat on the bed by my mother’s side, and with tearful eyes gazed wonderingly on her parent; my brothers and I stood by the bedside; I, speechless, tearless, from intense grief: they, sobbing in loud lamentation; and the old nurse sat in the chimney corner, an uninterested, yet sympathizing spectator of the death bed. My father had made an excuse of going on a hunting party, some days previous, to avoid witnessing his wife’s last sufferings; and his wicked favorite had shut herself in her own rooms: we, therefore, were the sole attendants. And the priest and his delightful friend had gone, I know not where—probably departed for their respective places of destination—apprehensive of discovery.
“The old brass clock in the anti-chamber struck the midnight hour, and its hoarse, reverberating tone, had scarcely ceased, ere Madame de Serval aroused herself from her stupor; decaying life appeared to resuscitate, momentarily, in that attenuated form, like the spasmodic flicker of a lamp, whose flame is about to be extinguished. She extended her arms, as if beckoning to the shades—uplifted her eyes, as if praying for grace—then, suddenly breaking the portentous silence which had hung over us so long, she said, ‘Dear children, beloved little ones, come close to me.’ We gathered close around her. ‘Your poor mother is going the way of all the earth—she is going to leave you—and her memory will be as though she never had been. I entreat you to be kind to each other; to love and cherish each other’s friendship, practice virtue and good works, that ye may become worthy of heavenly rewards, and meet your mother above.’
“Her face was animated with almost supernatural energy for an instant; she pointed upwards with her finger for an instant, then her clay-cold fingers shrank from my clasp: she fell backward on her pillow; her eyes were glazed in the mists of death; and they, hardened in their expression, became fixed and cold; her arms stiffened, and fell rigid to her side: her whole form collapsed and changed. Death had claimed its own; all was over: the wrongs she had endured, her joys, her sorrows, were like a tale that is told; they were lost in the womb of time—past and forgotten.
“Petrified with fear to the spot—horror struck—we gazed upon the inanimate clay; then, after the first spasm of terror was past, we rushed to the nurse, and gathered round her, seeking consolation for that loss, which no power—mortal, or immortal—could restore to us.
“We wept ourselves to sleep that night, in our respective chambers. I, more than all the rest, felt wretched. God alone knows how miserable I was. And when I recalled my mother’s gentleness, her forbearance, her enduring love for a worthless man, and its reward, oh! that added the last bitter drop in the cup of wo!
“My father returned next day; he seemed neither surprised nor grieved when told of her death: how should he be, when he had planned, and premeditated it: ‘her health had been so feeble within the last two years,’ he said, ‘the event was not an unexpected one.’ Mademoiselle came not near us, and, absorbed in grief, I had forgotten her very existence.
“When the corpse was laid out, we all went to take a last fond look of that loved form, and bid it a temporary, perhaps eternal, adieu.
“She lay in state upon a costly bier, dressed as for a bridal. The white satin robe she was attired in, was not whiter than her marble face and hands: the wreath upon her hair scarcely outvied them in purity of color; and her face bore that expression of almost unearthly beauty, which rests upon the faces of the dead the first few hours after death. So calm, so pure and beautiful did she look, I almost thought her sleeping, and imagined I saw the grave-clothes rise and fall, with the respiration of life, upon that dead bosom. Oh, my mother! wert thou conscious of the tears I shed, thou wouldst have pitied me!”
Monsieur de Serval paused; his voice was inarticulate from emotion. Dropping my hand, he covered his face with both his, and trembled with grief. A man is generally ashamed to show such feelings before a woman; but the recollections of his youth had completely unmanned him. I thought it indelicate to proffer words of condolence, and, therefore, waited till he became quieted, and went on.