"They shall be buried with him," he said. "His hand was clenched in
death on a small knot of lace--you perhaps might recognise it,--
yes?--so!--it shall be left as it was found."
And,--his melancholy errand being done,--he bowed profoundly once
more, and retired.
Sylvie gazed around her vaguely,--the letter of her dead admirer
grasped in her hand,--and his former letter, proposing marriage,
lying still open on the table. Her old gouvernante watched her
anxiously, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"You are crying, Katrine!" she said, "And yet you knew him very
little,--he never loved you! I wish--I wish MY tears would come! But
they are all here--aching and hurting me--"and she pressed her hand
to her heart--"You see--when one is a woman and has been loved by a
man, one cannot but feel sorry--for such an end! You see he was not
altogether cruel!--he defended my name--and he has died for my sake!
For my sake!--Oh, Katrine! For MY sake! So he DID love me--at the
last! . . . and I--I--Oh, Katrine!--I wish--I wish the tears would
come!"
And as she spoke she reeled--and uttering a little cry like that of
a wounded bird, dropped senseless.
XXV.
The death of the famous actor Miraudin was a nine days' wonder, and
about a three weeks' regret.
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