again reclined with closed eyes on Francesca's shoulder. How long did that silent and dreary night appear! At last the dim tapers grew pale before the warm red light that came in gleams through the curtained windows.
"Give us air!" exclaimed Francesca; "she is faint;" for the drops stood on the Duchesse's forehead, while a low gurgling sound in the throat indicated some inward struggle. But again she sunk, reposed, in Francesca's arms.
"Holy Virgin! the hand I hold is cold and stiff!" said Mazarin, starting.
An aged attendant drew nigh, and looked on,—"Mademoiselle, it is a corpse you are embracing!"
Sick, faint, and weary, for the first time Francesca relaxed her support. The woman laid the Duchesse back upon her pillow.
"It cannot be!" cried her uncle, gazing upon her features, whose fevered colour still lingered.
"Bring a looking-glass!"
They brought a little mirror, one which had often reflected the smiles of the living—it now reflected the fixed image of the dead. The eyelid had closed for ever; the crystal gave back the yet red lip, the still rose-touched cheek; but it gave them back unstained—no breath, as in former
