older more quickly; her hair was white at thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken
with some unknown, wasting malady.
And now she would be the first to die.
She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak:
"Send at once for the priest."
And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her lips moving as
if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her heart, her face expressive of a terror
distressing to witness.
Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept bitterly, repeating
over and over again the words:
"Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!"
She had always called her "my little one," while Marguerite's name for the elder was
invariably "sister."
A footstep sounded on the stairs. The door opened. An acolyte appeared, followed by the
aged priest in his surplice. As soon as she saw him the dying woman sat up suddenly in
bed, opened her lips, stammered a few words and began to scratch the bed-clothes, as if
she would have made hole in them.
Father Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her on the forehead and said in a gentle
voice:
"May God pardon your sins, my daughter. Be of good courage. Now is the moment to
confess them--speak!"
Then Marguerite, shuddering from head to foot, so that the very bed shook with her
nervous movements, gasped:
"Sit down, sister, and listen."
The priest stooped toward the prostrate Suzanne, raised her to her feet, placed her in a
chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters, pronounced:
"Lord God! Send them strength! Shed Thy mercy upon them."
And Marguerite began to speak. The words issued from her lips one by one--hoarse,
jerky, tremulous.
