CHAPTER XXI.

THE PALACE OF TRUTH.

In the morning, the old Comte St. Juste was less feverish, but nevertheless not himself. He had, as he complained, a confused feeling. The world was full of Roses--oh, the most _charmantes_--and of Clotildes equally divine. They were coming up the avenue in automobiles, they were entering the room, they were sitting with him, they were pouring into his ear the fact that his mission was not accomplished. He had gone to the _établissement_, but he had not seen _the little wonder_. He could not rest until he saw her. In vain Margot tried to soothe him. She longed beyond words to quiet his mind by telling him the simple truth--that she was _la petite_, _she_ was the little wonder of the _établissement_ Marcelle. But when she hinted at such a proceeding to _la belle_ grand'mère, that poor woman gave a cry of bitter horror.

"Thou wilt kill _mon_ Alphonse; thou _wilt_ not be so cruel, thou _canst_ not be so cruel."

"Ah, but I ought, I ought," sobbed Margot.

Madame la grand'mère consulted with the doctor.

"M. _le docteur_ said that if anything was told at the present moment to excite the very old man, it would be his death; if Margot would not promise silence, she must keep out of the room."

"It will soothe him, _ma belle_ grand'mère," cried little Margot.

Nevertheless la Comtesse kept the child from the sick man's room. One hour he grew better, another hour weaker, his strength kept fluctuating; then he began to watch the door.

"It will soon be time for _la petite_ Comtesse to return; I want _la petite_," he said to his wife.

The distracted woman kept on telling him that she would soon appear; the Comte kept on listening; he fixed his sunken eyes on the clock.

"How soon will the time fly?" he cried impatiently; "how soon will _la petite_ be in these arms?" Poor little Margot was upstairs, struggling with the great despair that had visited her. The dear old man--the dearest old man in all the world except The Desmond--why was she not with him?--how wicked of people to tell lies; she would never tell another. She resolved as soon as she returned to Desmondstown to tell The Desmond also the whole truth.

Toward evening the Comte's temperature went down; it went down to normal--below normal--far below. Madame was thankful, thinking the worst was over.

The old man dropped into a quiet sleep; he looked very aged in that sleep. The doctor came in. Madame exclaimed excitedly:

"Ah, Monsieur _le docteur_, I have news of the best. His temperature is----"

Then she suddenly stopped speaking--the doctor's face was very grave. He prepared a strong stimulant and forced the old man to swallow it in teaspoonfuls. Then he went into another room with Madame la Comtesse.

"What is the matter?" he said. "Has the child betrayed you?"

"_Non, non_," replied Madame. "I have put her upstairs, but he thinks she is still at school at Arles--learning, ever learning; dancing, ever dancing; making herself _très jolie_--ah, that is what he thinks, _mon_ adored one."

"Listen, Madame," said the doctor. "Your husband is ill, very ill indeed. Keep the little one away if you can, but if not, let her go to him. It may be possible that the truth and the truth alone may save him even now. I will come back in two hours. Try to save him from shock, if possible; but behold! if it is necessary, fetch _la petite_ Comtesse."

The doctor departed and Madame went back to her husband's bedside. He was talking in a rambling, feeble way, and kept looking first at the clock and then at the door.

"_La petite_, she does not arrive," he said suddenly. As suddenly a thought flashed through the mind of la Comtesse.

"She will not be here till late to-night, _mon_ Alphonse," was her reply. "She has been asked to partake of _tisane_ with her cousins, the Marquises Clotilde _et_ Rose. She will have much to tell thee when she does enter thy room."

"Ah," said the poor old Comte feebly, "is she also one of those who overlook the old, the very aged, when they can hardly speak, hardly think? Time flies for us both--ah, _ma petite_ Comtesse, _mon ange_, I may not be here if thou dost delay. I want her to tell me----"

"What, my unhappy one?" asked his wife.

"All about that wonderful _petite_ who performs such extraordinary feats at the _établissement_ which once was thine, my Ninon."

All of a sudden the heart of Ninon rose in a great wave. It seemed to struggle for utterance. She could scarcely contain herself.

"Harken, _mon_ Alphonse," she said. "I will go myself and see whether the automobile has yet returned."

"Ah, do, my Ninon," replied the Comte. "Thou, at least, hast always been faithful and true--faithful, loving and true. I trust thee to the uttermost."

The poor woman staggered out of the room. She was met by little Margot, who was standing in the passage, and whose face was the colour of a white sheet. Her deep, dark eyes were full of untold misery.

"_Belle_ grand'mère," she began--but grand'mère had no words to express her feelings. She pointed to the door where the sick man lay.

"Thou mayst save him. Thou hast my permission," she said in the lowest whisper; and little Margot with her gentle step entered the darkened room.

She knew at once that it was a trifle too hot. She opened wide one of the French windows; she let in the soft air, which, winter-time as it was in most places, felt like summer here. The old man breathed more easily. He turned on his pillow. He opened his eyes, so very sunken in his head, but they lit up with a joy beyond expression when he saw little Margot.

"Ah, I am weak, _mon enfant_," he said. "But thou hast come, _ma petite_. Put thy little hand on mine. There is life in thy little hand; lay it on mine. Ah, _ma petite_, how greatly do I love thee."

"And I thee, _mon_ grandpère," cried Margot.

"Tell me," said the Comte, after a few minutes' silence, during which Margot had fed him with some of the doctor's restorative--"tell me what thou didst do at the _établissement_ to-day. Didst thou buy a chapeau?--didst thou watch the _little wonder_ as she sold chapeaux and robes for Madame Marcelle?"

"I was not there at all to-day, grandpère."

"Ah, _ma petite_, but wast thou there yesterday?"

"_Mais oui_," said Margot.

"And didst thou perchance see the _little wonder_?"

"I saw her; she is not a wonder."

"Ah, _ma petite_, be thou not of the jealous ones!" said the old man. "That would not be worthy of thee. Thou hast thy gifts; she has hers. Her chapeaux, they are perfect. Her taste, it is what I never saw before. Tell me about her, _chérie_."

"I will," said Margot, "if thou, _mon_ grandpère, will let me put both of my hands round one of thine, and if thou wilt promise not to--not to turn me away afterwards."

"Turn thee away, best beloved, it couldn't be."

"Ah, but it might be," said little Margot. "There is a burden on thy mind; there is a--I call it not a _fear_, but it approaches in the direction of a fear. _La petite_ who sells _les_ chapeaux, _les_ robes and all the other articles of refinement in the _établissement_, is _thine own Margot_. Dost thou hear me? I will not keep it back from thee any longer. _La pauvre belle_ grand'mère thought that it was best for thee not to know, but there are cruel people in the world who tried to tell thee, but failed, so now _I_ tell thee. The ladies who came here yesterday were of the cruel sort; the girl in the grass-green hat was of the cruel sort; but thy Margot--thy Margot--_mon_ grandpère, art thou angry?"

"With thee? _Mais non--non!_" His face was whiter than ever; he could scarcely swallow. After a little he seemed to gather strength.

"Call thy _belle_ grand'mère back to me, Margot," he said.

Margot fetched the poor woman. She came in, trembling from head to foot.

"I have told him; he had to know," whispered Margot.

The old man's eyes were bright now with some of the brightness of yore; his voice was firmer, too.

"Listen, Ninon," he said, "behold! Keep thy hand in mine, Margot, beloved. Ninon, I thought thou wert truthful, and I thought this child truthful, but she, _la petite_, has told me all the truth at last. I cannot appear before the Great Almighty with the sin of pride on my soul. Behold, now, we are all alike in Heaven; only make me one promise, Ninon. Never again shall this little one enter the _établissement_ of Madame Marcelle, never except to buy."

"She shall not, _mon_ Alphonse," said Ninon, falling at his side and burying her face in the counterpane and beginning to weep.

"Thy tears distress me," said the old man. "Behold _la petite_, she does not weep."

"I come of those who regard tears as not wise," said Margot; "but, behold! I promise thee, grandpère, I promise with all--all my heart. I will never again sell in the _établissement_ Marcelle."

"Then see! how happy I am," said M. le Comte. "I am in the palace of truth. For a long time I lived in the palace of lies; gorgeous in colour was that palace and very beautiful to the senses, nevertheless it was the palace of lies. Now I breathe the healthy air of truth. Thou hast spoken, _mon enfant_; thou hast promised, _ma_ Ninon; there is no pride left. For me, I also did wrong. The spirit of pride led me wrong."

"Then, grand'mère, we are all happy together," said Margot; "but see!--do not talk, he has fallen asleep."

The old Comte St. Juste had fallen asleep, and there was a lovely smile, something like that of an angel, on his face. The child and the woman watched him. The doctor came in presently and shook his head. He deliberately took a seat in the room and partly closed the window which Margot had opened.

"The restorative, _M. le docteur_," cried poor Madame.

"He could not swallow now," said the doctor, "but I will stay; yes, I will stay to the end."

The end came in the early hours of the morning. The old Comte slipped silently, softly and painlessly out of this life into a better one; and poor _belle_ grand'mère cried as though her heart would break, but Margot did not cry. She made wreaths of violets, out of their own garden, to surround him. She was never idle for a moment. She put in his hands the Rose of France.

He had lost the look of age; he had slipped back twenty, even thirty years; but for his white hair, he did not look so very old.

"It is because the angels have kissed him," said little Margot.

Madame wept nearly the whole of the day; but Margot kept quiet, thoughtful, busy. She had much to do for _la belle_ grand'mère.

Toward evening the tired woman lay down and slept; and little Margot sat in the room with her dead grandfather, where the great wax candles were lighted--seven at the head of the bed, and seven at the feet. The room was full of the scent of violets.

"If that is death, I should like to go, too, some day," thought little Margot.

All in a moment, she observed the sweet smile on the lips of the dead man, and there came a lump in her throat. Had she not remembered that she was a Desmond she might have cried; but being a Desmond she kept back her tears.

The servants sat in the passage outside. They were surprised that Margot should like to be alone with the dead; but Margot was without fear because she loved so dearly.

"I am glad I told him," she said once or twice to herself; and then she thought of The Desmond and resolved that she would tell him, too, for lies were not of the Kingdom of God, and she wanted to belong to that kingdom and to that alone. What did a _dot_ matter?--what did riches matter? "_Pauvre belle_ grand'mère," thought the little girl. "I will always uphold her and strengthen her and help her in my little, poor way; but she shall not spend her money on me."

After the funeral the will was read.

Fergus Desmond and Uncle Jacko came over for the service and the after ceremony. Margot was quietly told of the extent of the funds which would be at her disposal when she came of age, or before that if she married. They were her French grandfather's present to his beloved grandchild.

Poor _la belle_ grand'mère looked with anguish at Margot. Margot took her hand.

"I must speak the truth, and now," she said. "_Mon_ grandpère was rich only because of this most dear lady; and I will not take the money, no, not a penny of it. She earned it for him, _for him_!"

"You cannot refuse," said the notary. "See, there was a deed of gift made to you. The dead would walk if you did refuse;" but Margot said gently and firmly that she did not believe in that sort of thing, for _chère_ grandpère was in the heavenly garden with God, and that anyhow _she_ now meant to make a deed of gift.

All those present turned and stared at her.

"Behold!" she cried. "The _dot_ was arranged for me, who care not for money at all. I give back every farthing of it to _la belle_ grand'mère; and I will come and see her once at least every year; and I love her, for she has a true, brave heart; but now I must go back to The Desmond, for I hear his voice calling me across the waters."

All in vain did _la belle_ grand'mère implore of little Margot not to make the deed of gift for her; to forget her--not to think of her at all; but Margot could never forget, and would never take the money.

In the end her wishes were carried out, and _la belle_ grand'mère returned to the _établissement_ at Arles. The Château St. Juste was shut up for the present, but once every year it was to be opened and filled with servants, and little Margot was to spend a month there with _la belle_ grand'mère. For although she had given up the _dot_, she could not by any manner of means dispose of the Château St. Juste, which was her direct property, coming to her through her own father and grandfather.