“He yielded to her, but he said nothing. But the Countess caught what Edmée said, and smiled again.
”‘Thank God!’ she said. They were her last words, and what could have shown her more fit for Heaven? Thanking God through all—through the dark and bitter days that had befallen, through sunshine and through storm—thanking Him now with her latest breath for the ray of comfort that had come at the last, though so long deferred that hope had well-nigh fled.
“She died that afternoon. All through the long, sad hours of that strange day the three young creatures watched beside her, not knowing, in their inexperience, the exact moment at which the gentle spirit fled—not till the Sister of Charity, who, in disguise, like many others all through those awful months, still went about ministering to the sick and dying—not till Sister Angelique tapped softly at the door, and entering, saw in a moment the sad truth, did they understand that the mother and friend was no longer there—only the garment she had worn.
”‘I would have come sooner, but I was even more wanted elsewhere; there was nothing to be done here. The doctor saw her yesterday,’ she said to Pierre, when it was explained to her who he was.
”‘And the kind priest,’ sobbed Edmée; ‘he will come again, dear Sister, will he not? No one knows he is a priest,’ she said to Pierre. ‘He has to dress like a workman.’
“Angelique stayed a while and did what she could. There was a little, a very little money remaining, and Pierre drew out the remains of his. Edmée had been obliged to sell everything they had brought away in their flight from the Rue de Lille. ‘My portrait was the last to go,’ she said, ‘but my darling did not know it. And as it brought us you, Pierre, we must not regret it. Some day we may buy it back again,’ and by degrees she related to him all the details of the last few weeks. How the Marquis and Marquise had been taken very soon after Ludovic had left, how but for a warning from Marguerite Ribou she, her mother, and Edmond would infallibly have perished as they did.
”‘They were not long in prison,’ she said. ‘Marguerite told us the day they were guillotined. My uncle died like a gentleman, and at the last the Marquise seemed to find courage too. They must have repented of much in those last days I think. See! this is what my poor uncle sent us secretly,’ and she held out a soiled scrap of paper, on which were written the two words ‘Forgive me!’ ‘Ah,’ continued Edmée, who—such is the education of sorrow—at fourteen spoke like a woman, ‘I cannot murmur that she is gone when I think of her gentle death, and what it might have been. Marguerite had not wished to save Edmond,’ she went on after a pause. ‘She is very angry, even now, whenever she sees him. I think her brain is a little gone. But she has been most faithful to us. It was that dreadful Victorine that caused it. She kept persuading my aunt there was no danger, and thus delayed their escaping till she had completed her own plans. She must have robbed them fearfully.’
“Pierre let Edmée talk. She was too excited to remain quiet. He listened without saying much, though his mind was terribly full. How were they to accomplish the journey to Valmont? Penniless to begin with, and almost afraid to spend money if they had had it! How could Edmée ever make the journey on foot, and almost worst, Edmond, of whom Pierre had never thought? His presence, too, made the risk greater, for, as his father’s son, there must be many to hate him, and notwithstanding his pity for the boy, Pierre foresaw trouble. Edmond had scarcely spoken to him, and even through his misery there flashed out sparks of his old ill-feeling.
“There came again a knock at the door.
”‘It must be our kind priest,’ said Edmée.