Explore "Forget-me-not" by Marjorie Bowen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Dowager Duchesse du Boccage sat by a bright fire, for the autumn days were damp. Her face was in shadow, for she was sitting in a deeply-hooded leather chair, but the firelight showed her fine blue-veined hands grasping a small brass crucifix. She was in a complete bewilderment of grief; these two sudden deaths, apoplexy, cholera, one after the other without any farewells! Not all the tender soothing of her son, the caresses of her daughters, the consolations of the Maréchal Frediani, of her friends, could wholly erase from the blind woman the terror that something worse than sudden death had occurred. Camille and Fanny! So suddenly, so soon!
Her maid told her with tender respect (the gentle lady was well loved by everyone who knew her) that a young woman wished to see her; she had come to solicit some personal charity and had mentioned the name of l'Abbé Galle. Such visitors were not infrequent in the apartment in the Faubourg St. Germain where Madame du Boccage spent a peaceful and benevolent old age.