Brother Jacques could stand no more. He rushed madly toward the door, which he opened violently. Sister Benie stood in the corridor, transfixed.
"My son?" she faltered. A pathetic little sob escaped her. Her arms reached out feebly; she fell. Brother Jacques caught her, but she was dead. Her heart had broken. With a cry such as Dante conceived in his dream of hell, Brother Jacques fell beside her, insensible.
The marquis stared at the two prostrate figures, fumbling with his lips.
Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and Jehan, followed by the Chevalier, entered.
"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" The marquis was throwing aside the coverlet.
"Father!" cried the Chevalier.
"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" the marquis cried. "My clothes, my clothes! Help me! I must dress!"
With trembling hands Jehan did as his master bade him. The Chevalier, appalled, glanced first at his father, then at Brother Jacques and Sister Benie. He leaned against the wall, dazed; understood nothing of this scene.
"My shoes! Yes, yes! My sword!" rambled the dying man, in the last frenzy. "Paul said I should die in bed, alone. No, no! … Now, stand me on my feet … that is it! … Paul, it is you? Help me! Take me to her! Margot, Margot? … There is my heart, Jehan, the heart of the marquis. … Take me to her? And I thought I dreamed! Take me to her! … Margot?" He was on his knees beside her, kissing her hands and shuddering, shuddering.
"Margot is dead, Monsieur," said the aged valet. The tears rolled down his leathery cheeks.