THE AMERICAN
perfect gentleman. He got angry once a year—he kept to that; but then it was very bad. He always took to bed directly afterwards. This time I speak of he took to bed as usual, but he never got up again. I'm afraid he was paying for the free life he had led; is n't it true they mostly do, sir, when they get old and sad? My lady and Mr. Urbain kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote letters to M. de Cintré. The Marquis got worse and the doctors gave him up. My lady gave him up too, and if the truth must be told she gave him up as I've seen her clap together—with a sound to make you jump—the covers of a book she has read enough of. When once he was out of the way she could do what she wished with her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor child and treasure should be handed over to M. de Cintré. You don't know what Mademoiselle was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest, gentlest, fairest!—and guessed as little of what was going on around her as the lamb can guess the butcher. I used to nurse my unhappy master and was always in his room. It was here at Fleurières, in the autumn. We had a doctor from Paris, who came and stayed two or three weeks in the house. Then there came two others, and there was a consultation, and these two others, as I said, declared the Marquis could n't come round. After this they went off, pocketing their fees, but the other one stopped over and did what he could. M. de Bellegarde himself kept crying out that he refused to be given up, that he insisted on getting better, that he would live and look after his daughter. Mademoiselle Claire and the Vicomte—that was Mr. Valentin, you
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