LITMIR.BIZ

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position, he was making frantic, miserable efforts to raise himself still further. He, too, had heard the dull thud of feet, the shuffling gait of men when carrying a heavy burden.

      His mind flew back half-a-century, to the days when he had witnessed scenes wherein he was then merely a half-interested spectator. He knew the cortège composed of valets and friends, with the leech walking beside that precious burden, which anon would be deposited on the bed and left to the tender care of a mourning family.

      Who knows what pictures were conjured up before that enfeebled vision? But he guessed. And when Juliette dashed into his room and stood before him, pale, trembling, a world of misery in her great eyes, she knew that he guessed and that she need not tell him. God had already done that for her.

      Pierre, the old Duc's devoted valet, dressed him as quickly as he could. M. le Duc insisted on having his habit de cérémonie, the rich suit of black velvet with the priceless lace and diamond buttons, which he had worn when they laid le Roi Soleil to his eternal rest.

      He put on his orders and buckled on his sword. The gorgeous clothes, which had suited him so well in the prime of his manhood, hung somewhat loosely on his attenuated frame, but he looked a grand and imposing figure, with his white hair tied behind with a great black bow, and the fine jabot of beautiful point d'Angleterre falling in a soft cascade below his chin.

      Then holding himself as upright as he could, he sat in his invalid chair, and four flunkeys in full livery carried him to the deathbed of his son.

      All the house was astir by now. Torches burned in great sockets in the vast hall and along the massive oak stairway, and hundreds of candles flickered ghostlike in the vast apartments of the princely mansion.

      The numerous servants were arrayed on the landing, all dressed in the rich livery of the ducal house.

      The death of an heir of the Marnys is an event that history makes a note of.

      The old Duc's chair was placed close to the bed, where lay the dead body of the young Vicomte. He made no movement, nor did he utter a word or sigh. Some of those who were present at the time declared that his mind had completely given way, and that he neither felt nor understood the death of his son.

      The Marquis de Villefranche, who had followed his friend to the last, took a final leave of the sorrowing house.

      Juliette scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were fixed on her father. She would not look at her brother. A childlike fear had seized her, there, suddenly, between these two silent figures: the living and the dead.

      But just as the Marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for the first time.

      "Marquis," he said very quietly, "you forget—you have not yet told me who killed my son."

      "It was in a fair fight, M. de Duc," replied the young Marquis, awed in spite of all his frivolity, his light-heartedness, by this strange, almost mysterious tragedy.

      "Who killed my son, M. le Marquis?" repeated the old man mechanically. "I have the right to know," he added with sudden, weird energy.

      "It was M. Paul Déroulède, M. le Duc," replied the Marquis. "I repeat, it was in fair fight."

      The old Duc sighed as if in satisfaction. Then with a courteous gesture of farewell reminiscent of the grand siècle he added:

      "All thanks from me and mine to you, Marquis, would seem but a mockery. Your devotion to my son is beyond human thanks. I'll not detain you now. Farewell."

      Escorted by two lacqueys, the Marquis passed out of the room.

      "Dismiss all the servants, Juliette; I have something to say," said the old Duc, and the young girl, silent, obedient, did as her father bade her.

      Father and sister were alone with their dead. As soon as the last hushed footsteps of the retreating servants died away in the distance, the Duc de Marny seemed to throw away the lethargy which had enveloped him until now. With a quick, feverish gesture he seized his daughter's wrist, and murmured excitedly:

      "His name. You heard his name, Juliette?"

      "Yes, father," replied the child.

      "Paul Déroulède! Paul Déroulède! You'll not forget it?"

      "Never, father!"

      "He killed your brother! You understand that? Killed my only son, the hope of my house, the last descendant of the most glorious race that has ever added lustre to the history of France."

      "In fair fight, father!" protested the child.

      "'Tis not fair for a man to kill a boy," retorted the old man, with furious energy.

      "Déroulède is thirty: my boy was scarce out of his teens: may the vengeance of God fall upon the murderer!"

      Juliette, awed, terrified, was gazing at her father with great, wondering eyes. He seemed unlike himself. His face wore a curious expression of ecstasy and of hatred, also of hope and exultation, whenever he looked steadily at her.

      That the final glimmer of a tottering reason was fast leaving the poor, aching head she was too young to realise. Madness was a word that had only a vague meaning for her. Though she did not understand her father at the present moment, though she was half afraid of him, she would have rejected with scorn and horror any suggestion that he was mad.

      Therefore when he took her hand and, drawing her nearer to the bed and to himself, placed it upon her dead brother's breast, she recoiled at the touch of the inanimate body, so unlike anything she had ever touched before, but she obeyed her father without any question, and listened to his words as to those of a sage.

      "Juliette, you are now fourteen, and able to understand what I am going to ask of you. If I were not chained to this miserable chair, if I were not a hopeless, abject cripple, I would not depute anyone, not even you, my only child, to do that, which God demands that one of us should do."

      He paused a moment, then continued earnestly:

      "Remember, Juliette, that you are of the house of Marny, that you are a Catholic, and that God hears you now. For you shall swear an oath before Him and me, an oath from which only death can relieve you. Will you swear, my child?"

      "If you wish it, father."

      "You have been to confession lately, Juliette?"

      "Yes, father; also to holy communion, yesterday," replied the child. "It was the Fête-Dieu, you know."

      "Then you are in a state of grace, my child?"

      "I was yesterday morning, father," replied the young girl naïvely, "but I have committed some little sins since then."

      "Then make your confession to God in your heart now. You must be in a state of grace when you speak the oath."

      The child closed her eyes, and as the old man watched her, he could see the lips framing the words of her spiritual confession.

      Juliette made the sign of the cross, then opened her eyes and looked at her father.

      "I am ready, father," she said; "I hope God has forgiven me the little sins of yesterday."

      "Will you swear, my child?"

      "What, father?"

      "That you will avenge your brother's death on his murderer?"

      "But, father … "

      "Swear it, my child!"

      "How can I fulfil that oath, father?—I don't understand … "

      "God will guide you, my child. When you are older you will understand."

      For a moment Juliette still hesitated. She was just on that borderland between childhood and womanhood when all the sensibilities, the nervous system, the emotions, are strung to their highest pitch.

      Throughout her short life she had worshipped her father with a whole-hearted, passionate devotion, which

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