The artist went to his atelier and picked up the letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender heart of the poor mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her maternal preference had erected.

When Joseph returned to her bedside he had the good feeling to be silent.

He did not speak of his brother in the three weeks during which--we will not say the illness, but--the death agony of the poor woman lasted.

Bianchon, who came every day and watched his patient with the devotion of a true friend, told Joseph the truth on the first day of her seizure.
"At her age," he said, "and under the circumstances which have happened to her, all we can hope to do is to make her death as little painful as possible." She herself felt so surely called of God that she asked the next day for the religious help of old Abbe Loraux, who had been her confessor for more than twenty-two years.

As soon as she was alone with him, and had poured her griefs into his heart, she said--as she had said to Madame Hochon, and had repeated to herself again and again throughout her life:-- "What have I done to displease God?
Have I not loved Him with all my soul?
Have I wandered from the path of grace?
What is my sin?
Can I be guilty of wrong when I know not what it is?
Have I the time to repair it ?" "No," said the old man, in a gentle voice.