he groaned, "she is dead!"

The nun and the priest knelt beside him, and repeated in a low voice the
prayers for the dead.

They implored God to shed his peace and mercy on the departed soul.

They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her who had suffered so
much on earth.

Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Count de Commarin was
more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead woman, his old love, once
so beautiful.

Claire and the doctor hastened to assist him.

They undid his cravat, and took off his shirt collar, for he was
suffocating. With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful
eyes, told of suppressed grief, they moved the count's chair to the
half-opened window to give him a little air. Three days before, this
scene would have killed him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like
hands by labour.

"His tears have saved him," whispered the doctor to Claire.

M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, as his thoughts became clearer,
his sufferings returned.

Prostration follows great mental shocks. Nature seems to collect her
strength to sustain the misfortune. We do not feel all its intensity at
once; it is only afterwards that we realize the extent and profundity of
the evil.

The count's gaze was fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie's body. There,
then, was all that remained of her. The soul, that soul so devoted and
so tender, had flown.

What would he not have given if God would have restored that unfortunate
woman to life for a day, or even for an hour? With what transports
of repentance he would have cast himself at her feet, to implore her
pardon, to tell her how much he detested his past conduct! How had
he acknowledged the inexhaustible love of that angel? Upon a mere
suspicion, without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing,
he had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not seen her
again? He would have spared himself twenty years of doubt as to Albert's
birth. Instead of an isolated existence, he would have led a happy,
joyous life.

Then he remembered the countess's death. She also had loved him, and had
died of her love.

He had not understood them; he had killed them both.

The hour of expiation had come; and he could not say: "Lord, the
punishment is too great."

And yet, what punishment, what misfortunes, during the last five days!

"Yes," he stammered, "she predicted it. Why did I not listen to her?"

Madame Gerdy's brother piti