"Absurd! No one can get here; you forget the roads and the snow.
Schenk? He is miles away!"
"Then it's for you. Yes. They're coming up. Listen—it is you,
'Ma'amselle Clairville,' I hear them say!"
"But why be so alarmed?" cried Pauline, and she threw open the door.
Antoine Archambault and Poussette stood outside.
"Your brother the seigneur is dying, mademoiselle," said Poussette, "and desires to see you at once. There is no time to lose."
"What is it?" asked Miss Cordova, not comprehending the foreign tongue, and they told her.
Miss Clairville's face changed. She trembled visibly, made the sign of the cross—so potent is habit, so strong are traditions—but uttered nothing.
"She is ill!" said Miss Cordova, and she led her friend to a chair.
"No, no, I am not ill. But I do not want to go. Je ne le veux pas.
I do not wish at all to go. I will not go, Sara!"
"It's hard, I guess," said the other woman sympathetically, "but it's natural he should want to see you before he dies. Of course, she'll go, Mr. Poussette, and I'll go with her."