"And what of the Marquis Fontenelle?" asked Madame Bozier.
"Madama, I posted all the letters he entrusted to my charge. The one I have brought to the Contessa was enclosed in an envelope to me and marked 'To be personally delivered in case of my death.' But among the letters for the post was one to the Marquis's only sister, the Abbess of a convent in Paris—she will probably claim her brother's remains."
He was silent. After a pause Sylvie rose unsteadily, and detached a cluster of violets she wore at her neck.
"Will you—" her voice faltered.
But Ruspardi understood, and taking the flowers, respectfully kissed the little hand that gave them.
"They shall be buried with him," he said. "His hand was clenched in death on a small knot of lace—you perhaps might recognise it,—yes?—so!—it shall be left as it was found."
And,—his melancholy errand being done,—he bowed profoundly once more, and retired.
Sylvie gazed around her vaguely,—the letter of her dead admirer grasped in her hand,—and his former letter, proposing marriage, lying still open on the table. Her old gouvernante watched her anxiously, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"You are crying, Katrine!" she said, "And yet you knew him very little,—he never loved you! I wish—I wish MY tears would come! But they are all here—aching and hurting me—"and she pressed her hand to her heart—"You see—when one is a woman and has been loved by a man, one cannot but feel sorry—for such an end! You see he was not altogether cruel!—he defended my name—and he has died for my sake! For my sake!—Oh, Katrine! For MY sake! So he DID love me—at the last! . . . and I—I—Oh, Katrine!—I wish—I wish the tears would come!"
And as she spoke she reeled—and uttering a little cry like that of a wounded bird, dropped senseless.