said M. Roulleau, after another pause.

“There is no time to spend over new perplexities,” answered M. Deshoulières, impatiently, jumping up and pushing back his chair. “I must return. Come with me, Roulleau: there is just the possibility of his having arrived at a more Christian state of mind, and agreeing to an alteration.”

“He must die, I presume?” remarked the notary.

“Die? Yes. No one but he could live through the night, but he will no doubt do so—out of contrariety,” added the doctor, under his breath.

The two men rose. Veuve Angelin had only just time to scurry into her kitchen before they appeared, ran down the stairs, and into the little square. There was a statue in the centre, of course, and trees planted round it, with benches here and there for the idle. Nurses and their charges strolled about, under the little patches of shade, a band played lively airs from the last comic opera, two or three men sat outside a café and smoked. M. Deshoulières turned abruptly down the narrow lane along which Veuve Angelin had carried her pitcher. Such contrasts—outside, the sun shining, people laughing and amusing themselves; inside, sorrow, and hush, and death—were too thoroughly matters of course with him to be much noticed. Perhaps he had seen deeply enough into life to know that, after all, the contrast is often superficial. Not unfrequently the laughter would be tears, if it dared: the sharpest grief is sometimes denied the luxury of a sign. Heaven help such poor souls! Moreover, the contrast, such as it is, came before him every day. It shocks us when we are suddenly brought out of the noise and turmoil about us, face to face with that dread Angel whose step each hour brings nearer to ourselves. But this man lived, as it were, in his presence, and was not jarred by any discord between that consciousness and the life of every day. Nevertheless, on this day there was a strangeness about the event which impressed, him and made him impatient of interruption to his thoughts. He was glad to leave the music and the dancing children and the sunlight behind him, and to feel himself under the shade of the great cathedral, though he did not put his fancy into words, or acknowledge more than a pleasant friendliness as he looked up at the beautiful spires, the firm up-springing lines, the lovely rose windows, the noble portals, the thin solemn statues with folded hands and serene attitudes,—the whole aspect of the building ever varying, severe or tender, as the case might be, but always inconceivably peaceful.

The little notary had hard work to keep pace with his companion’s long strides. They went round two sides of the Cathedral, then out of the Place Notre Dame into another street, as narrow as the others, but somewhat unlike them. The houses were not crowded together in so odd a fashion. They had outside shutters, which were closed against the sun; and high up were long rambling wooden balconies, over which green vines clambered and tossed themselves. Further on, a house was being dug out,—the house of some famous man: the workmen were a little excited over a fresh discovery. M. Deshoulières passed without a look, and presently came upon the Cygne, standing in a triangular Place, set round with sycamore-trees. At the door M. Roulleau ventured upon a remark.

“Do you intend to suggest any course of action to the young lady?” he asked.

He received no answer. Just then the doctor was not thinking about the young lady. He strode hastily up the stairs, through an atmosphere yet heavy and sweet with its lingering cloud of incense, and into the room where M. Moreau was doing battle with the last enemy he would have to contend with. A girl stood by the side of the bed, looking down on the dread struggle with pitiful eyes. Except now and then moistening the poor parched lips or smoothing the tumbled pillow, there was nothing for her to do but watch: all apparent consciousness was at an end; no sign of recognition greeted the doctor. He also stood watching for a few minutes before he turned to the girl.

“How long is it since this change came on, mademoiselle?”

“About a quarter of an hour. I think he hardly heard Monsieur le Curé’s last words,” she added, under her breath. Her voice trembled: that quarter of an hour had seemed very terrible to poor Thérèse. The sunlight streamed in at the window, but, in spite of it, the room looked dark and funereal: there was a heavy paper on the walls; stiff, solid furniture; in one corner a huge black stove reared itself grimly towards the ceiling. The women of the house would have stayed with her, but the old man was impatient of their presence: almost his last word had been a peremptory “Go!” still fierce enough to frighten them. It was not likely that the consciousness of any person’s presence would return, as M. Deshoulières quickly perceived. He took the little notary to the door, and told him so.

“There is no possible use in your waiting, M. Ignace,” he said. “I was a fool, and must abide by the consequences. Nothing will ever be changed now. What is the matter?—are you ill?” he went on, noticing his pale face.

“For the moment,—only for the moment, M. Deshoulières,” answered the little man, with a quavering voice. “It is so horrible, you know, to see him like that. Will—will it be soon?”

“I do not know. It is what we must all come to,” said the doctor, sternly. He shut the door, and went back to the bedside. “That man is a veritable coward,” he said, half aloud, so that Thérèse might have heard if she had not been busied with a vain attempt to soothe the increasing restlessness of the dying man. Those two, and old Nannon, who came in after a while of her own accord, watched together. It was at an end before morning, as the doctor had foretold. When the grey dawn broke over the old weird-looking houses, with the young sycamore-trees standing sentinel-wise before them; when it touched the beautiful stern lines of the Cathedral, and delicate carving blossomed into distinctness, and light stole into the shadowy depths, and the little lamp before the altar burned yellow, and the jackdaws woke up screaming and busy, Monsieur Moreau lay with a quiet look upon his features to which they had long been strangers, until it seemed as if the day, which was bringing youth to all the earth, had brought it back to him, and fixed it on his face for ever.