Urbain kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote letters
to M. de Cintre. The marquis got worse and the doctors gave him up. My
lady, she gave him up too, and if the truth must be told, she gave up
gladly. When once he was out of the way she could do what she pleased
with her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor innocent child
should be handed over to M. de Cintre. You don't know what Mademoiselle
was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in France,
and knew as little of what was going on around her as the lamb does of
the butcher. I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room.
It was here at Fleurieres, 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 that the marquis couldn't be saved. After this they went off,
pocketing their fees, but the other one stayed and did what he could.
The marquis himself kept crying out that he wouldn't die, that he
didn't want to die, that he would live and look after his daughter.
Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount--that was Mr. Valentin, you
know--were both in the house. The doctor was a clever man,--that I could
see myself,--and I think he believed that the marquis might get well.
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