When her sons returned indoors after the death had taken place, their mother called them to her room. Nancy’s violent ringing had disturbed her, and she had lain since then in anxiety, waiting for news.
“Better not tell the mother to-night,” whispered Emile to his brother outside her door.
But the mother’s ears were quick; she was sitting up in bed, and the door was ajar. “Yes, you will tell me, my sons,” she said. “I am fearing the worst.”
“Well, mother, it is all over,” avowed Gustave. “The attack was more violent than the one last night, and the poor lady is gone.”
“May the good God have taken her to His rest!” fervently aspirated madame. But she lay down in the bed in her distress and covered her face with the white-frilled pillow and sobbed a little. Gustave and Emile related a few particulars.
“And what was really the malady? What is it that she has died of?” questioned the mother, wiping her eyes.
“That is not settled; nobody seems to know,” replied Gustave.
Madame Veuve Sauvage lay still, thinking. “I—hope—that—man—has—not—done—her—any—injury!” she slowly said.
“I hope not either; there is no appearance of it,” said Monsieur Gustave. “Any way, mother, she had two skilful doctors with her, honest men and upright. Better not admit such thoughts.”
“True, true,” murmured madame, appeased. “I fear the poor dear lady must have taken a chill, which struck inwardly. That handsome demoiselle, the cousin of Monsieur le Procureur, died of the same thing, you may remember. Good-night, my sons; you leave me very unhappy.”