We
took good care of him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my lady
had almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend. He
got better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger. What
was killing him was the dreadful fits of pain in his stomach. But little
by little they stopped, and the poor marquis began to make his jokes
again. The doctor found something that gave him great comfort--some
white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. I
used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him
easier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on giving
him the mixture whenever he was bad. After that there was a little
doctor from Poitiers, who came every day. So we were alone in the
house--my lady and her poor husband and their three children. Young
Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl, to her
mothers. You know she is very lively, and her maid told me that she
didn't like to be where people were dying." Mrs. Bread paused a moment,
and then she went on with the same quiet consistency. "I think you
have guessed, sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady was
disappointed." And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face which
seemed to grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them.
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