XXIII
The abbé came in and greeted me in a cold and sombre manner. Then he made a sign to me, and drawing me away from the bed, said:
"You must be mad! Return at once; and if you are wise, you will remain away. It is the only thing left for you to do."
"And since when," I cried, flying into a passion, "have you had the right to drive me out of the bosom of my family?"
"Alas! you have no longer a family," he answered, with an accent of sorrow that somewhat disarmed me. "What were once father and daughter are now naught but two phantoms, whose souls are already dead and whose bodies soon will be. Show some respect for the last days of those who loved you."
"And how can I show my respect and grief by quitting them?" I replied, quite crushed.
"On this point," said the abbé, "I neither wish nor ought to say anything; for you know that your presence here is an act of rashness and a profanation. Go away. When they are no more (and the day cannot be far distant), if you have any claims to this house, you may return, and you will certainly not find me here to contest them or affirm them. Meanwhile, as I have no knowledge of these claims, I believe I may take upon myself
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