“No; M. de St. Luc.”
As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered look, held out the letter to him.
“See,” said he, “what St. Luc has done for me.”
“Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me to be very good and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.”
“It is incredible!” cried Bussy.
“Certainly; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite changed; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.”
“Yes, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.”
“So, you see, it is written.”
“Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no more that specter, always coming between me and happiness? It cannot be true.”
“It is true; read again, ‘he died there.’”