He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room—he listened at the chamber-door—he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Thérèse well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying—
“Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying—or dead?”
“Indeed, I am not certain,” exclaimed Thérèse, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.
“Here is no pain,” whispered Thérèse. “She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself.”
She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.
“No pain, thank God!” he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.
“Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?”
“Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son.”
“And the other sufferers?”
“My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night.”