A few minutes afterwards, Madame Lavaux knocked softly, and
looked into the room. Graham went out into the passage to
speak to her, closing the door after him.
"How is he now, the poor Monsieur?" asks Madame.
"He is sleeping now," Graham answered; "there is nothing to be
done but to keep him as quiet as possible."
"And will he recover, do you think?"
"Hardly. One must always hope; but he is very ill."
"Ah! well," said the landlady, resigning herself; "but, after
all," she added, "it is sad to see a man die like that; and
then there is the child. Otherwise the world will be none the
worse for wanting him. But what is to become of the little
girl?"
"That is all arranged," replied Graham, "she is to go to an
aunt, a sister of her father's, who, it appears, is Superior
of a convent near Liege. But can you tell me, Madame, had
Madame Linders quarrelled with her English relations? When she
was dying alone here, had she no friends of her own that she
could have sent for to be with her?"
"She would not have them, Monsieur; you see, she was devoted
to her husband in spite of all, this poor Madame, and _he_ had
quarrelled with her relations, I believe; at any rate, she
would not send for them.
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