“Those who are in heaven, monseigneur, know best what Heaven may do.”
Philip’s pale face took on a look of agony. “She is dead—she is dead!” he gasped.
Grandjon-Larisse inclined his head, then after a moment, gravely said:
“What did you think was left for a woman—for a Chantavoine? It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur.”
So saying, he bowed again to Philip and turned upon his heel.
CHAPTER XLIV
Philip lay on a bed in the unostentatious lodging in the Rue de Vaugirard where Damour had brought him. The surgeon had pronounced the wound mortal, giving him but a few hours to live. For long after he was gone Philip was silent, but at length he said “You heard what Grandjon-Larisse said—It is broken pride that kills, Damour.” Then he asked for pen, ink, and paper. They were brought to him. He tried the pen upon the paper, but faintness suddenly seized him, and he fell back unconscious.
When he came to himself he was alone in the room. It was cold and cheerless—no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lamp in the street outside his window. He rang the bell at his hand. No one answered. He called aloud: “Damour! Damour!”
Damour was far beyond earshot. He had bethought him that now his place was in Bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortune remained, what of Philip’s valuables might be secured. Ere he had fallen back insensible, Philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name on a piece of paper. Above this Damour wrote for himself an order upon the chamberlain of Bercy to enter upon Philip’s private apartments in the castle; and thither he was fleeing as Philip lay dying in the dark room of the house in the Rue de Vaugirard.