"And yet, madame, it is but three months; not a longer interval than usual."
"Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told me, the last time we quitted him, that he had not long to live."
"Yes, doubtless; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. Sometimes death seems to forget old men, and they live on as though by the habit of living; and often, besides, an old man is like a child, ill to-day and well to-morrow."
"Alas! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and dead to-morrow."
Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to say, and silence succeeded for some minutes.
"At what hour have you ordered the horses?" said the lady, at last.
"You say that in a strange manner, Remy."
"To see us no more; at least, not to try to see us any more."
"God give it him eternally," said the lady, in a cold voice, "and yet--"
"A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future."
"You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, and you do not look forward to a future."
"Yes, Remy, I do," cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; "but listen! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?"
"It is possible; but it is an hour too soon."
Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on the door.
"I!" replied a trembling voice, "I, Grandchamp, the baron's valet."
"Ah! mon Dieu! Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low! Whence do you come?"
"Well," cried the lady from the top of the stairs, "are they our horses, Remy?"
"No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp?"
"Alas! I do; what will she do, poor lady."
"Remy," cried she again, "you are talking to some one?"
"Yes, madame, it is I," replied the old man sadly, uncovering his white head.
"Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my father is dead?"
"Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master."
Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her and took her hand softly.
"How did he die; tell me, my friend?" said she.
"Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was struck a week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He muttered your name for the last time, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more."
Diana went up again without another word. Her room was on the first story, and looked only into a courtyard. The furniture was somber, but rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of our Saviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twisted columns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of the room. Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a portrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes, but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribable love. It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked on a bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right hand hung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes were closed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to his face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only at the moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the portrait, in letters red as blood, was written, "Aut Cæsar aut nihil." The lady extended her arm, and spoke as though it could hear her.