"Madame, it is to tell you of her last words that I have sought your presence. Yet, alas----"
"Alas!" she repeated quickly. "Alas! Why do you say that? Alas--what?"
"Her last words were scarce those of peace. Instead, the words of one whose end was not peaceful; of one who wandered--was distraught--or revealed in her dying moments a secret that should have been divulged long, years ago."
The ivory of his listener's face did not become whiter as he spoke, neither to her cheeks did any blood mantle. There was no sign that in the mind of this, woman, marble alike in look and heart, was any knowledge of what the revealed secret was, or only one such sign. A duller glance from the deep sunken eyes, as though a film had risen before them and hidden them from him who gazed at her. Then she said:
"Doubtless she wandered. Was distraught, as you say."
"Nay, madame. For she left behind her proofs--letters--testifying----"
"What?"
"That my aunt was not the Princesse de Rochebazon. That, instead, she and her husband usurped a position which was never theirs. That a deep wrong had been done which must, which shall be, righted."
"By whom?"
"By me, with God's grace."