In less than a quarter of an hour, the landau drew up in the Rue d'Assas, at the same time as Mme. Daubrel's cab. The two women quickly crossed the vestibule, and, after asking Vera to wait with the children in the little room next to the bed-chamber, Marthe was going to pass in to Lise, when Dumesnil stopped her, saying, in a broken voice:
"The priest is with her. He came a few moments after the departure of the commissionaire Madame Podoi had sent for him. He had a presentiment that his presence was necessary."
Vera Soublaieff, to whom the old man spoke as much as to Marthe, sat in a chair and took Tekla on her knees. The little girl wished to do as she was told by her big sister—so in her simplicity she called the daughter of the farmer of Elva—who had asked her not to cry, so as not to pain her mother; and her little face was convulsed by the efforts she made to keep back her tears.
Leaning against the mantel-piece, his head lowered, the young Prince Alexander did not speak, but the nervous movements of his clasped hands showed plainly enough with what difficulty he kept command over himself. With the heroic courage that women often possess in the most terrible circumstances, Mme. Daubrel by a look tried to calm Dumesnil. It seemed as if in this heavy silence they could hear their bruised hearts beating in unison.
Almost half an hour had passed when the venerable J. Wasilieff left the sick-chamber. At the sight of the dying woman's children he called them to him, kissed them tenderly, and blessed them. Then, sad and deeply moved, he walked from the room, raising his eyes to heaven, and not speaking again.
Mme. Daubrel was already with her friend, whom she found calm, almost smiling. It seemed as if in freeing her soul from its agony the priest's pardon had given new strength to her body.
"Will you promise me to keep calm?" asked Marthe, in her soft voice.
"Yes," said Lise, slowly, as if seeking to guess why the question was put to her.
Then, suddenly, she cried:
"My children, my children!"