"What does that matter? Promise—to soothe his dying moments, even if you break it afterwards. The Church thus orders, and the Church will make good, will console."
Thus hemmed in, Pauline bent and gave her promise; much shaken and still violently sobbing, she then left the room and Renaud accompanied her. The act was significant, the leech of the body withdrawing to make room for the leech of the soul. The door was softly drawn to by Mme. Poussette; the low sound of Father Rielle's voice was heard at intervals, then there was a silence. Ten minutes later the priest and nurse came out, throwing wide the door on the remains of Henry Clairville, just passed from this world to the next. At the same instant, a strange incongruous sound came from the room, and Pauline, wide-eyed and panting, stopped sobbing, and stood up with her hands pressed over her heart. It was the penetrating chant of three lusty kittens, new-born, blind and helpless, yet quick to scent their mother and grope towards her furry bosom.
Madame hastily re-entered, driving all the cats before her, including the outraged mother, who took this summary eviction with hoarse and angry cries, and the kittens, gathered roughly into madame's apron, continued to emit shrill, smothered squeals all the way to the kitchen. Dr. Renaud passed in to verify the death, and the incident of the cats was not lost upon him; indeed, it appealed to his professional instinct.
"In the midst of Death we are in Life," he remarked jocularly, stepping back into the hall to get ready for the drive homeward.
Miss Clairville glanced at these preparations, and speedily made up her mind. She had grown quiet and was already relieved at the prospect of leaving Clairville immediately.
"It cannot matter now whether I go or stay, surely! Dr. Renaud, I go with you, is it not so?"
"Faith—it doesn't matter any longer now, as you say. Quick with you then, for I have much in the village to arrange; a Clairville does not die every day. Madame has the young Antoine with her, she will not be afraid. I can send somebody out to sit with her, and you will be best at Poussette's."
The day was cold but bright and intensely sunny, and Pauline's relief and gratitude to the doctor brought back her colour; she sat up, casting her care behind her, and let him talk.
"Well, there was not much to be done with him; the 'pic' had weakened the system, and after so many years of incarceration in a sleeping-room the chest and lungs were delicate; hence the congestion and cause of death. Well, well—let me see—I remember your brother twenty-three years ago when I first came to St. Ignace. A strange, bookish, freakish character, but a gentleman, that goes without saying, Ma'amselle Pauline. And you, just a little black-haired girl, reciting French tragedy in the untidy garden! Ah—ah! I see it clearly—no father, no mother, save old Victoria Archambault, and yet you grew up a handsome young lady, always thinking of making your fortune, eh? And you cannot have made it yet or you would not be contemplating marriage with our friend the Englishman."
Pauline's face changed at this; the barred gate stood out over her eyes, and with ease and happiness fading from her mouth and expression she turned on Renaud.