At last the doctor forbade Mme. Willemsens to leave her room. Every day it was brightened by the flowers that she loved, and her children were always with her. One day, early in November, she sat at the piano for the last time. A picture—a Swiss landscape—hung above the instrument; and at the window she could see her children standing with their heads close together. Again and again she looked from the children to the landscape, and then again at the children. Her face flushed, her fingers flew with passionate feeling over the ivory keys. This was her last great day, an unmarked day of festival, held in her own soul by the spirit of her memories. When the doctor came, he ordered her to stay in bed. The alarming dictum was received with bewildered silence.
When the doctor had gone, she turned to the older boy.
“Louis,” she said, “take me out on the terrace, so that I may see my country once more.”
The boy gave his arm at those simply uttered words, and brought his mother out upon the terrace; but her eyes turned, perhaps unconsciously, to heaven rather than to the earth, and indeed, it would have been hard to say whether heaven or earth was the fairer—for the clouds traced shadowy outlines, like the grandest Alpine glaciers, against the sky. Mme. Willemsens’ brows contracted vehemently; there was a look of anguish and remorse in her eyes. She caught the children’s hands, and clutched them to a heavily-throbbing heart.
“ ‘Parentage unknown!’ ” she cried, with a look that went to their hearts. “Poor angels, what will become of you? And when you are twenty years old, what strict account may you not require of my life and your own?”
She put the children from her, and leaning her arms upon the balustrade, stood for a while hiding her face, alone with herself, fearful of all eyes. When she recovered from the paroxysm, she saw Louis and Marie kneeling on either side of her, like two angels; they watched the expression of her face, and smiled lovingly at her.
“If only I could take that smile with me!” she said, drying her eyes.
Then she went into the house and took to the bed, which she would only leave for her coffin.
A week went by, one day exactly like another. Old Annette and Louis took it in turns to sit up with Mme. Willemsens, never taking their eyes from the invalid. It was the deeply tragical hour that comes in all our lives, the hour of listening in terror to every deep breath lest it should be the last, a dark hour protracted over many days. On the fifth day of that fatal week the doctor interdicted flowers in the room. The illusions of life were going one by one.
Then Marie and his brother felt their mother’s lips hot as fire beneath their kisses; and at last, on the Saturday evening, Mme. Willemsens was too ill to bear the slightest sound, and her room was left in disorder. This neglect for a woman of refined taste, who clung so persistently to the graces of life, meant the beginning of the death-agony. After this, Louis refused to leave his mother. On Sunday night, in the midst of the deepest silence, when Louis thought that she had grown drowsy, he saw a white, moist hand move the curtain in the lamplight.
“My son!” she said. There was something so solemn in the dying woman’s tones, that the power of her wrought-up soul produced a violent reaction on the boy; he felt an intense heat pass through the marrow of his bones.
“What is it, mother?”
“Listen! Tomorrow all will be over for me. We shall see each other no more. Tomorrow you will be a man, my child. So I am obliged to make some arrangements, which must remain a secret, known only to us. Take the key of my little table. That is it. Now open the drawer. You will find two sealed papers to the left. There is the name of Louis on one, and on the other Marie.”
“Here they are, mother.”
“Those are your certificates of birth, darling; you will want them. Give them to our poor, old Annette to keep for you; ask her for them when you need them. Now,” she continued, “is there not another paper as well, something in my handwriting?”
“Yes, mother,” and Louis began to read, “Marie Willemsens, born at
—”
“That is enough,” she broke in quickly, “do not go on. When I am dead, give that paper, too, to Annette, and tell her to send it to the registrar at Saint-Cyr; it will be wanted if my certificate of death is to be made out in due form. Now find writing materials for a letter which I will dictate to you.”
When she saw that he was ready to begin, and turned towards her for the words, they came from her quietly:—
“Monsieur le Comte, your wife, Lady Brandon, died at Saint-Cyr, near Tours, in the department of Indre-et-Loire. She forgave you.”
“Sign yourself—” she stopped, hesitating and perturbed.
“Are you feeling worse?” asked Louis.
“Put ‘Louis-Gaston,’ ” she went on.
She sighed, then she went on.
“Seal the letter, and direct
