_Son'io_.'

"We all walked on without saying a word to him."

"There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep," said de
Marsay.

"It would be frightful to let us leave with this horrible picture in our
memory," said Madame de Montcornet. "I shall dream of it----"

"And what was the punishment of Monsieur de Marsay's 'First'?" said Lord
Dudley, smiling.

"When the English are in jest, their foils have the buttons on," said
Blondet.

"Monsieur Bianchon can tell us, for he saw her dying," replied de
Marsay, turning to me.

"Yes," said I; "and her end was one of the most beautiful I ever
saw. The Duke and I had spent the night by the dying woman's pillow;
pulmonary consumption, in the last stage, left no hope; she had taken
the sacrament the day before. The Duke had fallen asleep. The Duchess,
waking at about four in the morning, signed to me in the most touching
way, with a friendly smile, to bid me leave him to rest, and she
meanwhile was about to die. She had become incredibly thin, but her face
had preserved its really sublime outline and features. Her pallor made
her skin look like porcelain with a light within. Her bright eyes
and color contrasted with this languidly elegant complexion, and her
countenance was full of expressive calm. She seemed to pity the Duke,
and the feeling had its origin in a lofty tenderness which, as death
approached, seemed to know no bounds. The silence was absolute. The
room, softly lighted by a lamp, looked like every sickroom at the hour
of death.

"At this moment the clock struck. The Duke awoke, and was in despair at
having fallen asleep. I did not see the gesture of impatience by which
he manifested the regret he felt at having lost sight of his wife for a
few of the last minutes vouchsafed to him; but it is quite certain
that any one but the dying woman might have misunderstood it. A busy
statesman, always thinking of the interests of France, the Duke had a
thousand odd ways on the surface, such as often lead to a man of genius
being mistaken for a madman, and of which the explanation lies in the
exquisiteness and exacting needs of their intellect. He came to seat
himself in an armchair by his wife's side, and looked fixedly at her.
The dying woman put her hand out a little way, took her husband's and
clasped it feebly; and in a low but agitated voice she said, 'My poor
dear, who is left to understand you now?' Then she died, looking at
him."

"The stories the