"I cannot,
monsieur," he said in a tone of pathetic apology. "See; there is
a chain about my neck with a locket. Take it from me. Take it now,
monsieur. There are some papers also, monsieur. Take all. I want
to see them safely in your keeping."
I did his bidding, and from the breast of his doublet I drew some
loose letters and a locket which held the miniature of a woman's
face.
"I want you to deliver all to her, monsieur."
"It shall be done," I answered, deeply moved.
"Hold it - hold it up," he begged, his voice weakening. "Let me
behold the face."
Long his eyes rested on the likeness I held before him. At last,
as one in a dream--
"Well-beloved," he sighed. "Bien aimee!" And down his grey,
haggard cheeks the tears came slowly. "Forgive this weakness,
monsieur," he whispered brokenly. "We were to have been wed in
a month, had I lived." He ended with a sob, and when next he
spoke it was more labouredly, as though that sob had robbed him of
the half of what vitality remained. "Tell her, monsieur, that my
dying thoughts were of her. Tell - tell her - I--"
"Her name?" I cried, fearing he would sink before I learned it.
"Tell me her name."
He looked at me with eyes that were growing glassy and vacant. Then
he seemed to brace himself and to rally for a second.
"Her name?" he mused, in a far-off manner. "She is - Ma-de-moiselle
de -"
His head rolled on the suddenly relaxed neck. He collapsed into
Rodenard's arms.
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