The old Comte St. Juste had fallen asleep, and there was a lovely smile, something like that of an angel, on his face. The child and the woman watched him. The doctor came in presently and shook his head. He deliberately took a seat in the room and partly closed the window which Margot had opened.
"The restorative, M. le docteur," cried poor Madame.
"He could not swallow now," said the doctor, "but I will stay; yes, I will stay to the end."
The end came in the early hours of the morning. The old Comte slipped silently, softly and painlessly out of this life into a better one; and poor belle grand'mère cried as though her heart would break, but Margot did not cry. She made wreaths of violets, out of their own garden, to surround him. She was never idle for a moment. She put in his hands the Rose of France.
He had lost the look of age; he had slipped back twenty, even thirty years; but for his white hair, he did not look so very old.
"It is because the angels have kissed him," said little Margot.
Madame wept nearly the whole of the day; but Margot kept quiet, thoughtful, busy. She had much to do for la belle grand'mère.
Toward evening the tired woman lay down and slept; and little Margot sat in the room with her dead grandfather, where the great wax candles were lighted—seven at the head of the bed, and seven at the feet. The room was full of the scent of violets.
"If that is death, I should like to go, too, some day," thought little Margot.
All in a moment, she observed the sweet smile on the lips of the dead man, and there came a lump in her throat. Had she not remembered that she was a Desmond she might have cried; but being a Desmond she kept back her tears.