xysms of passion;
while at others, he would hold my hand for hours together, and seem to
feel my presence as something soothing. His frequent recurrence to the
scene in the churchyard showed the deep impression it had made upon
his mind, and how fatally it had influenced the worst symptoms of his
malady.

Thus passed two days and nights. On the third morning, exhaustion seemed
to have worn him into a false calm. His wild, staring eye had become
heavier, his movements less rapid; the spot of color had left his cheek;
the mouth was pinched up and rigid; and a flatness of the muscles of the
face betokened complete depression. He spoke seldom, and with a voice
hoarse and cavernous, but no longer in the tone of wild excitement as
before. I sat by his bedside still and in silence, my own sad thoughts
my only company. As it grew later, the sleepless days and nights I had
passed, and the stillness of the sickroom, overcame me, and I slept.

I awoke with a start; some dreamy consciousness of neglect had flashed
across me, and I sat up. I peeped into the bed, and started back with
amazement. I looked again, and there lay De Meudon, on the outside of
the clothes, dressed in his full uniform,--the green coat and white
facing, the large gold epaulettes, the brilliant crosses on the breast;
his plumed chapeau lay at one side of him, and his sabre at the other.
He lay still and motionless. I held the candle near his face, and could
mark a slight smile that curled his cold lip, and gave to his wan and
wasted features something of their former expression.

"Oui, mon cher," said he, in a weak whisper, as he took my hand and
kissed it, "c'est bien moi." And then added, "It was another of my
strange fancies to put on these once more before I died; and when I
found you sleeping, I arose and did so. I have changed something since I
wore this last: it was at a ball at Cambaceres."

My joy at hearing him speak once more with full possession of his
reason, was damped by the great change a few hours had worked in his
appearance. His skin was cold and clammy; a gluey moisture rested on his
cheek; and his teeth were dark and discolored. A slimy froth, too, was
ever rising to his lips as he spoke; while at every respiration his
chest heaved and waved like a stormy sea.

"You are thirsty, Charles," said I, stooping over him to wet his lips.

"No," said he, calmly, "I have but one thing which wants relief; it is
here."

He pressed his hand to