The advocate ushered the old man into Madame Gerdy's room. Her
condition, since the afternoon, had changed a little; though it was
impossible to say whether for the better or the worse. One thing was
evident, her prostration was not so great. Her eyes still remained
closed; but a slight quivering of the lids was evident. She constantly
moved on her pillow, and moaned feebly.
"What does the doctor say?" asked old Tabaret, in that low voice one
unconsciously employs in a sick room.
"He has just gone," replied Noel; "before long all will be over."
The old man advanced on tip-toe, and looked at the dying woman with
evident emotion.
"Poor creature!" he murmured; "God is merciful in taking her. She
perhaps suffers much; but what is this pain compared to what she would
feel if she knew that her son, her true son, was in prison, accused of
murder?"
"That is what I keep thinking," said Noel, "to console myself for this
sight. For I still love her, my old friend; I shall always regard her
as a mother. You have heard me curse her, have you not? I have twice
treated her very harshly. I thought I hated her; but now, at the moment
of losing her, I forget every wrong she has done me, only to remember
her tenderness.
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