"'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie—God bless you!'
"I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck.
"Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man—they must have looked strangely to her.
"'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked very—very loud.
"The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah, mon ami, if you had heard her cry, 'Mon Dieu! il est mort!—il est mort!'"
For a moment the abbé could not go on.
"She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!"
The garçon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbé had not touched his wine—nor had I.
"He was buried," resumed the abbé, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, 'à mon pere, 1845.'
"I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn."