"'Marie, you must sit up with the Count to-night.'
"I was surprised at this, and replied:
"'What! sit up with the Count! Isn't madame going to sit up with him herself?'
"'No; our mistress is ill, and you must take her place.'
"Ill, poor child! I was sure it would end that way, and I told her so a hundred times; but what can you do, monsieur? Young people never have any thought for the future,—and then, it was her own father, too. So I took my knitting, said good night to Toby, and went to the master's room. Sperver, who was waiting for me, went off to bed as soon as I came in, and I was left all alone."
Here the good woman paused, slowly breathed up a pinch of snuff, and seemed to be brushing up her memory. I had become attentive.
"At about half past ten," she continued, "I was knitting away beside the bed, and every now and then I raised the curtain to see how the Count was doing; he never stirred; he was sleeping like a child. All went well up to eleven o'clock; then I began to feel tired; when you are old, monsieur, do what you will, you fall asleep in spite of yourself; and then, too, I didn't think anything was going to happen. I said to myself, 'He will sleep like a top till morning!'
"Towards midnight the wind died down, and the big windows that had been rattling all the evening were quiet. I got up to see if anything was going on outside. The night was as black as a bottle of ink, and I went back to my armchair. I took another look at the sick man and I saw that he hadn't stirred; then I went on knitting. After a few minutes, I fell slowly, slowly to sleep. My chair was as soft as down and the room was very warm; I couldn't keep awake.
"I had been asleep about an hour, when a draught of cold air woke me. I opened my eyes, and what did I see? The long, middle window was wide open, the curtains were drawn, and the Count was standing upright on the window-sill!"