came. The
rehearsal is just beginning."

But something Modeste said in answer made her give a little cry, full of
consternation. She came quickly back, and going up to Jacqueline:

"My dear," she said, "you must go home at once--there is bad news, your
father is ill."

"Ill?"

The solemnity of Madame d'Avrigny's voice, the pity in her expression,
the affection with which she spoke and above all her total indifference
to the fate of her rehearsal, frightened Jacqueline. She rushed away, not
waiting to say good-by, leaving behind her a general murmur of "Poor
thing!" while Madame d'Avrigny, recovering from her first shock, was
already beginning to wonder--her instincts as an impresario coming once
more to the front--whether the leading part might not be taken by
Isabelle Ray. She would have to send out two hundred cards, at least, and
put off her play for another fortnight. What a pity! It seemed as if
misfortunes always happened just so as to interfere with pleasures.

The fiacre which had brought Modeste was at the door. The old nurse
helped her young lady into it.

"What has happened to papa?" cried Jacqueline, impetuously.

There was something horrible in this sudden transition from gay
excitement to the sharpest anxiety.

"Nothing--that is to say--he is very sick. Don't tremble like that, my
darling-courage!" stammered Modeste, who was frightened by her agitation.

"He was taken sick, you say. Where? How happened it?"

"In his study. Pierre had just brought him his letters. We thought we
heard a noise as if a chair had been thrown down, and a sort of cry. I
ran in to see. He was lying at full length on the floor."

"And now? How is he now?"

"We did what we could for him. Madame came back. He is lying on his bed."

Modeste covered her face with her hands.

"You have not told me all. What else?"

"Mon Dieu! you knew your poor father had heart disease. The last time the
doctor saw him he thought his legs had swelled--"

"Had!" Jacqueline heard only that one word. It meant that the life of her
father was a thing of the past. Hardly waiting till the fiacre could be
stopped, she sprang out, rushed into the house, opened the door of her
father's chamber, pushing aside a servant who tried to stop her, and fell
upon her knees beside the bed where lay the body of her father, white and
rigid.

"Papa! My poor dear--dear papa!"

The hand she pressed to her lips was as cold as ice. She raised her
frightened