But one morning, while we were breakfasting, there came a violent ring at my door. Nicette answered the bell and returned, followed by a woman whom I recognized: it was Justine, Pélagie’s maid.
My blood froze in my veins. Why had she come?
“Monsieur,” said Justine, “madame your wife is very sick; when she came home from a ball three days ago, she began to vomit blood; they think she can’t get well, and she wants to see you.”
Nicette turned pale; I saw her stagger, but she ran to fetch my hat.
“Go, my dear,” she said; “go at once; your wife is waiting for you. If necessary, stay with her, don’t come back! But try to save her life.”
I hurried after Justine and returned to that house which I had thought that I should never enter again. How everything was changed! What confusion everywhere! I found my way at last to my wife’s apartment and approached her bed; I could hardly recognize her. Was this that Pélagie who used to be so fresh and pretty?—I forgot her faults, and I was conscious of no feeling for her but pity.
She held out her hand.
“I wanted to see you before I died,” she said, in a faint voice. “Eugène, forgive my wrongdoing. I am punished for it, as you see. If I had listened to you, I should not be standing now on the edge of the grave.”
I tried to comfort her, to revive hope in her heart; but I could not; she knew too well that the mainspring of life was broken.
I took my place by her side. The day passed without bringing any change in her condition, but the night was terrible; and about five in the morning, Pélagie ceased to live.