February 19, midnight
She has made me promise to write to you when she can no longer write , and I write before her . She turns her eyes toward me , but she no longer sees me ; her eyes are already veiled by the coming of death ; yet she smiles , and all her thoughts , all her soul are yours , I am sure . Every time the door opens her eyes brighten , and she thinks you are going to come in ; then , when she sees that it is not you , her face resumes its sorrowful expression , a cold sweat breaks out over it , and her cheek-bones flush . February 19 , midnight . What a sad day we have had to-day , poor M. Armand ! This morning Marguerite was stifling ; the doctor bled her , and her voice has returned to her a while . The doctor begged her to see a priest .