Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur was at
Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, they decided
to spend the night there in order that Constance might not be left alone
with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they were chatting
together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearing Seraphine
raise her voice, after preserving silence for three hours.
"He is dead, you know," said she.
Who was dead? At last they understood that she referred to Dr. Gaude. The
celebrated surgeon, had, indeed, been found in his consulting-room struck
down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. In fact,
the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories were current on the
subject. According to one of them a patient had wreaked vengeance on the
doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that one day, long ago,
Seraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude's unhappy patients ought
to band themselves together and put an end to him.
When Seraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in a
nightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she once
more grinned like a lunatic, and said: "He is dead, we were all there!"
It was insane, improbable, impossible; and yet was it true or was it
false? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, of
that which one knows not, which one will never know.
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