“The doctor had said on the previous evening that the Count could scarcely live through the day. When the servant came back two hours later to give that hopeless answer, the dying man seemed to be greatly agitated.
“ ‘Oh God!’ he cried again and again, ‘I put my trust in none but Thee.’
“For a long while he lay and gazed at his son, and spoke in a feeble voice at last.
“ ‘Ernest, my boy, you are very young; but you have a good heart; you can understand, no doubt, that a promise given to a dying man is sacred; a promise to a father … Do you feel that you can be trusted with a secret, and keep it so well and so closely that even your mother herself shall not know that you have a secret to keep? There is no one else in this house whom I can trust today. You will not betray my trust, will you?’
“ ‘No, father.’
“ ‘Very well, then, Ernest, in a minute or two I will give you a sealed packet that belongs to M. Derville; you must take such care of it that no one can know that you have it; then you must slip out of the house and put the letter into the postbox at the corner.’
“ ‘Yes, father.’
“ ‘Can I depend upon you?’
“ ‘Yes, father.’
“ ‘Come and kiss me. You have made death less bitter to me, dear boy. In six or seven years’ time you will understand the importance of this secret, and you will be well rewarded then for your quickness and obedience, you will know then how much I love you. Leave me alone for a minute, and let no one—no matter whom—come in meanwhile.’
“Ernest went out and saw his mother standing in the next room.
“ ‘Ernest,’ said she, ‘come here.’
“She sat down, drew her son to her knees, and clasped him in her arms, and held him tightly to her heart.
“ ‘Ernest, your father said something to you just now.’
“ ‘Yes, mamma.’
“ ‘What did he say?’
“ ‘I cannot repeat it, mamma.’
“ ‘Oh, my dear child!’ cried the Countess, kissing him in rapture. ‘You have kept your secret; how glad that makes me! Never tell a lie; never fail to keep your word—those are two principles which should never be forgotten.’
“ ‘Oh! mamma, how beautiful you are! You have never told a lie, I am quite sure.’
“ ‘Once or twice, Ernest dear, I have lied. Yes, and I have not kept my word under circumstances which speak louder than all precepts. Listen, my Ernest, you are big enough and intelligent enough to see that your father drives me away, and will not allow me to nurse him, and this is not natural, for you know how much I love him.’
“ ‘Yes, mamma.’
“The Countess began to cry. ‘Poor child!’ she said, ‘this misfortune is the result of treacherous insinuations. Wicked people have tried to separate me from your father to satisfy their greed. They mean to take all our money from us and to keep it for themselves. If your father were well, the division between us would soon be over; he would listen to me; he is loving and kind; he would see his mistake. But now his mind is affected, and his prejudices against me have become a fixed idea, a sort of mania with him. It is one result of his illness. Your father’s fondness for you is another proof that his mind is deranged. Until he fell ill you never noticed that he loved you more than Pauline and Georges. It is all caprice with him now. In his affection for you he might take it into his head to tell you to do things for him. If you do not want to ruin us all, my darling, and to see your mother begging her bread like a pauper woman, you must tell her everything—’
“ ‘Ah!’ cried the Count. He had opened the door and stood there, a sudden, half-naked apparition, almost as thin and fleshless as a skeleton.
“His smothered cry produced a terrible effect upon the Countess; she sat motionless, as if a sudden stupor had seized her. Her husband was as white and wasted as if he had risen out of his grave.
“ ‘You have filled my life to the full with trouble, and now you are trying to vex my deathbed, to warp my boy’s mind, and make a depraved man of him!’ he cried, hoarsely.
“The Countess flung herself at his feet. His face, working with the last emotions of life, was almost hideous to see.
“ ‘Mercy! mercy!’ she cried aloud, shedding a torrent of tears.
“ ‘Have you shown me any pity?’ he asked. ‘I allowed you to squander your own money, and now do you mean to squander my fortune, too, and ruin my son?’
“ ‘Ah! well, yes, have no pity for me, be merciless to me!’ she cried. ‘But the children? Condemn your widow to live in a convent; I will obey you; I will do anything, anything that you bid me, to expiate the wrong I have done you, if that so the children may be happy! The children! Oh, the children!’
“ ‘I have only one child,’ said the Count, stretching out a wasted arm, in his despair, towards his son.
“ ‘Pardon a penitent woman, a penitent woman! …’ wailed the Countess, her arms about her husband’s damp feet. She could not speak for sobbing; vague, incoherent sounds broke from her parched throat.
“ ‘You dare to talk of penitence after all that you said to Ernest!’ exclaimed the dying man, shaking off the Countess, who lay groveling over his feet.—‘You turn me to ice!’ he added, and there was something appalling in the indifference with which he uttered the words. ‘You have been a bad daughter; you have been a bad wife; you will be a bad mother.’
“The wretched woman fainted
