The house remained quiet, however, with that impressive quietness which sobers the heart at such times, and I could not do this.

And about six o'clock my mother opened her eyes again.
'This is not Marsac,' she murmured abruptly, her eyes roving from the ceiling to the wall at the foot of the bed.
No, Madame,' I answered, leaning over her, 'you are in Blois.

But I am here--Gaston, your son.' She looked at me, a faint smile of pleasure stealing over her pinched face.

'Twelve thousand livres a year,' she whispered, rather to herself than to me, 'and an establishment, reduced a little, yet creditable, very creditable.' For a moment she seemed to be dying in my arms, but again opened her eyes quickly and looked me in the face.

'Gaston ?' she said, suddenly and strangely.