"The nurse has just gone down to his supper," explained one of the waiters, "but _le mort est bien convenable_."
The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt embroidered with forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In place of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was yellow: the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hardship, terror, remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon his countenance.
Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping on Pensée's shoulder.
"Thank God!" she whispered, "he has no more to fear from men."
When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that she would watch there that night.
The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in her resolve.
"He was my father's friend," she said, quietly.
They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as her husband.
"If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay," said Pensée.
"That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for a little while."
Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about the deplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, she was very young. But Rachel--the great Rachel--made her first triumph at seventeen.
"One doesn't like to say it," observed Pensée, "but this death seems providential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poor child! At last it really looks as though she might be happy--like other people."
"Like other people," repeated the priest, mechanically.
"I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all night. And I should like our letters--I had no time to look at them."
A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation.
"I am afraid," said Pensée, "that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully wicked."
The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man's intellectual brilliancy:
"Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?" asked Pensée, abruptly.
_'Justice divine Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.'_