The Count felt bound to make an attempt to rouse him from this state of stupor and mental lethargy, this physical and intellectual prostration, which not unfrequently follows upon excessive fatigue and prolonged experiences of sorrow. Placing himself right in front of M. Desrioux, and compelling the latter to look up, he said—
"You have fulfilled to the utmost every duty, both as a son and a physician. You have fought against death, and have been worsted in the fight. Now, what do you intend doing?"
M. Desrioux looked at him at first without taking in the sense of his words, but, on the question being repeated, he exclaimed—
"What am I going to do? I know not—I know not."
"But I do," said the Count, decidedly. "You are going to rejoin her whom, after your mother, you loved best in the world, by whose side, even if you cannot altogether forget the past, you will at all events suffer less acutely. You are going to set out for Africa, and endeavour to rejoin Madame de Guéran."
"No, no I do not let us speak of her now," exclaimed M. Desrioux, "I have no right to talk about her. I must devote myself to the memory of my mother. All my thoughts belong to her, and I cannot turn to any one else."
"Was not Madame de Guéran a favourite with your mother?" asked the
Count.
"Oh! yes, a very great favourite."
"Then," replied M. de Pommerelle, "what wrong can there be in your devoting yourself to one who was dear to her whom you have lost? It is a homage to the dead to think of all they loved here below. And have you not also told me that Madame Desrioux regretted your having remained with her in Paris, and your refusal to accompany Madame de Guéran?"
"Yes, in her thorough unselfishness and self-denial she did her best to induce me to go, and was never tired of urging me. 'Go, my dear boy,' she would say, 'go with that charming woman. I am not jealous, I love her as a daughter. I will take care of myself during your absence, I will not be guilty of any imprudence, but will watch over myself for your sake. You will find me on your return, sitting by the window in my arm chair, waiting for you, and ready to welcome you back with a smile and a kiss.' I did well," continued M. Desrioux, "not to listen to her. I should not have seen her again, and she would have looked for me at her bedside in vain. Her latest moments, soothed, perhaps, by my presence, would have been sad indeed had I been away."