She thought no more of life; she made no complaint of her terrible and sudden death, of her cruel agonies; she made no reflection on the bitterness of dying in the midst of triumph, in the flower of her youth; she tried to face the certainty of approaching Death with what courage she might; she tried to realise a thing that till now she had never thought of.
She confessed again to M. Feuillet; he was a stern priest, and exhorted her in a severe fashion. When he had finished a Capuchin Father, her usual confessor, began to speak to her.
His discourse wearied her; she was trying to realise God for herself. The room was full of people; she saw them in a blur behind the figures of the two priests: she heard their talking, their sobbing. She noted the lines of her bed curtains, of her coverlet, and these things troubled her.
Presently another figure came to her bedside. After a moment she knew him–Lord Montagu, the English Ambassador. She thought of her brother.
“Tell him–that none loved him better than I—” Her voice failed.
My Lord answered her in English.
“Are you poisoned, Madame? I have heard it said. Is it true?”
“Yes. But in error–I accuse no one. Do not tell my brother; he might wish to take vengeance—”
Here M. Feuillet interrupted; she had spoken in English, but he had caught the word “poison.”
“Think of nothing but God, Madame–leaving these earthly matters.”