Never, to the last day of his life, one may fancy, would
Graham forget the little scene before him, which, indeed,
always returned to his memory with an impression as vivid as
that made upon him now--the overturned table, the scattered
cards, Madelon in her white frock, her pale scared face, her
wavy hair, her great brown eyes illuminated by the candle she
still held, the terrified Legros, the ghastly look of the
dying man--he saw it all at a glance, as he entered the room he
had left so dim and silent but half an hour ago. It was to
Legros he first addressed himself in a tone of strong
indignation.
"Monsieur," he said, "you can have no business to transact
with a dying man, and your presence is not desired here. Might
I request you to leave me alone with my patient?"
"On my honour, Monsieur," cries the other, pale and
stammering; "it was no doing of mine--he would have it so."
Graham, very likely, did not hear what he said; he was already
at M. Linders' side. He raised his head, he felt his pulse and
heart.
"It is nearly over," he said to the Soeur de Charite; "will you
take the little girl into the next room?" And Madelon,
frightened and trembling, offered no resistance as the Soeur
took her by the hand and led her away.
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