Saval rushed into the street, cast down, as though
he had met with some disaster. He walked with
giant strides through the rain, straight on, until
he reached the river bank, without thinking where he
was going. He then turned to the right and followed
the river. He walked a long time, as if urged
on by some instinct. His clothes were running
with water, his hat was out of shape, as soft as a
rag, and dripping like a roof. He walked on,
straight in front of him. At last, he came to
the place where they had lunched on that day so long
ago, the recollection of which tortured his heart.
He sat down under the leafless trees, and wept.
Marguerite de Therelles was dying. Although she
was-only fifty-six years old she looked at least seventy-five.
She gasped for breath, her face whiter than the sheets,
and had spasms of violent shivering, with her face
convulsed and her eyes haggard as though she saw a
frightful vision.
Her elder sister, Suzanne, six years older than herself,
was sobbing on her knees beside the bed. A small
table close to the dying woman’s couch bore,
on a white cloth, two lighted candles, for the priest
was expected at any moment to administer extreme unction
and the last communion.
The apartment wore that melancholy aspect common to
death chambers; a look of despairing farewell.
Medicine bottles littered the furniture; linen lay
in the corners into which it had been kicked or swept.
The very chairs looked, in their disarray, as if they
were terrified and had run in all directions.
Death—terrible Death—was in the
room, hidden, awaiting his prey.
This history of the two sisters was an affecting one.
It was spoken of far and wide; it had drawn tears
from many eyes.
Suzanne, the elder, had once been passionately loved
by a young man, whose affection she returned.
They were engaged to be married, and the wedding day
was at hand, when Henry de Sampierre suddenly died.
The young girl’s despair was terrible, and she
took an oath never to marry. She faithfully kept
her vow and adopted widow’s weeds for the remainder
of her life.
But one morning her sister, her little sister Marguerite,
then only twelve years old, threw herself into Suzanne’s
arms, sobbing: “Sister, I don’t want
you to be unhappy. I don’t want you to mourn
all your life. I’ll never leave you—never,
never, never! I shall never marry, either.
I’ll stay with you always—always!”
Suzanne kissed her, touched by the child’s devotion,
though not putting any faith in her promise.
But the little one kept her word, and, despite her
parents’ remonstrances, despite her elder sister’s
prayers, never married. She was remarkably pretty
and refused many offers. She never left her sister.
They spent their whole life together, without a single
day’s separation. They went everywhere
together and were inseparable. But Marguerite
was pensive, melancholy, sadder than her sister, as
if her sublime sacrifice had undermined her spirits.
She grew older more quickly; her hair was white at
thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken
with some unknown, wasting malady.
