re of her
hand seeming half to decline, half accept, the honours that were paid
her. Refusing with a sort of haughty indifference the seat prepared for
her at the end of the room, she moved on toward a small boudoir, and
was lost to Gerald's view. Indeed, his attention was rapidly directed
elsewhere, as a small, dark-eyed man in the centre of the room proceeded
to entertain the company with an account of Mirabeau's last moments. It
was the Doctor Cabanis, who had tended his sickbed with such devotional
affection, and whose real attachment had soothed the last sufferings
of his patient. If there was something in Gerald's estimation more than
questionable in this exposure of all that might be deemed most sacred
and private, the narrative was full of little details that interested
him.

The dreadful mockery by which Mirabeau endeavoured to cheat death of his
terrors, as, dressed, perfumed, and essenced, he lay upon his last
bed, all surrounded with flowers, was told with a thrilling minuteness.
Through all the assumed calm, through all the acted philosophy,
there crept out the agonising eagerness for life, that even _his_
dissimulation could not smother. His incessant questioning as to this
symptom or that, whether it indicated good or evil; the intense anxiety
with which he scrutinised the faces around his bed, to read the thoughts
their words belied, were all related; and, strangely enough, assumed to
imply that they were the last desires of a patriot who only longed
for life to serve his country. Of those who listened, many doubted the
honesty and good faith of his character; some thought him a royalist in
disguise; some deemed him a lukewarm patriot; some even regarded him as
so destitute of principle, that his professions were good for nothing;
and yet amid all these disparaging estimates, they regarded this
deathbed, where no consolations of religion were breathed, where no
murmur of prayer was heard, nor one supplication for mercy raised, as
a glorious triumph! It was to _their_ eyes the dawning of that
transcendent brightness which was to succeed the long night of
priestcraft and superstition; and however ready to cavil at his
doctrines or dispute his theories, there was but one voice--to honour
_him_ who with his last breath had defied the Church.

'_Ah, que c'est beau!' 'Ah que c'est magnifique!_' were the mutterings
on every side. One only circumstance detracted in any way from the
effect of these revelations;