She died—don't you ask me how. I told you before not to ask me how my girl died—I'm mad enough without that question; she died, and I kept the secret. For a long time it was gold to me, and he used to send me money regular to keep it dark; but by-and-by the money stopped from coming. I got savage, but still I kept the secret; because, you see, it was nothing when it was told, and there was no one rich enough to pay me to tell it. I didn't know where to find the marquis; I only knew he was somewhere in France."
"France?" exclaims Raymond.
"Yes; didn't I tell you France? He was a French marquis—a refugee they called him when he first made acquaintance with my girl—a teacher of French and mathematics."
"And his name—his name?" asks Raymond, eagerly. "His name, woman, if you don't want to drive me mad."
"He called himself Smith, when he was a-teachin', my dear," said the old woman with a ghastly leer; "what are you going to pay me for the secret?"
"Whatever you like, only tell me—tell me before you———"
"Die. Yes, deary; there ain't any time to waste, is there? I don't want to make a hard bargain. Will you bury me up to my neck in gold?"
"Yes, yes; speak!" He is almost beside himself, and raises a threatening hand. The old woman grins.
"I told you before that wasn't the way, deary. Wait a bit. Sillikens, give me that 'ere old shoe, will you? Look you here! It's a double sole, and the marriage certificate is between the two leathers. I've walked on it this thirty years and more."
"And the name—the name?"
"The name of the Marquis was De—de———"
"She's dying! Give me some water!" cried Raymond.
"De Ce—Ce———" the syllables come in fitful gasps. Raymond throws some water over her face.
"De Cevennes, my deary!—and the golden secret is told."
And the golden bowl is broken!
Lay the ragged sheet over the ghastly face, Sillikens, and kneel down and pray for help in your utter loneliness; for the guilty being whose soul has gone forth to meet its Maker was your only companion and stay, however frail that stay might be.
Go out into the sunshine, Monsieur de Marolles; that which you leave behind in the tottering garret, shaken by an ague-paroxysm with the fitful autumn wind, is nothing so terrible to your eyes.
You have accustomed yourself to the face of Death before now; you have met that grim potentate on his own ground, and done with him what it is your policy to do with everything on earth—you have made him useful to you.
