They had not called a doctor, for there was no doubt that she was dead,
and she had hated doctors. She had been very happy the day before, and
in the evening she had asked Joyselle to play to her, a thing she very
rarely did. He had played, they had drunk some Norman cider, and gone to
bed early.
"Father was tired," Theo added, as the hansom stopped.
Brigit dared not speak. Could it be that Joyselle had told her, after
they had gone to their room? He would have had to tell her either then
or the next day--to-day. He had not feared to tell her, for his delirium
was such that he feared nothing, and besides, she was always very
gentle.
"She will understand," he had told Brigit, "that I cannot help it."
Had he told her? Had the last beats of that gentle heart been unhappy
ones, or had the Madonna, to whom she prayed with such simple
confidence, spared her that supreme shock, and allowed her to die
happy, with her man beside her?
"Father has not spoken since--since the first," Theo whispered as they
crept up the stairs. "I--he rather frightens me."
The door of Felicite's room was closed, and for several seconds Brigit
dared not open it. Then, very softly, she turned the handle, and
motioning Theo not to follow her, went in.
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