"Come in, dear Maurice," said he,—"come in; you are not one of those against whom the door is closed."
"What is the matter?" inquired the young man.
"Geneviève is ill," said Dixmer; "indeed, more than ill,—she is delirious."
"Gracious Heaven!" cried the young man, overcome at again encountering trial and suffering; "what, then, is the matter with her?"
"You are aware, my friend," said Dixmer, "one never knows anything concerning the illness of women, especially their husbands."
Geneviève was lying on a lounge; near her stood Morand, offering her some salts, which she smelled occasionally.
"Well?" asked Dixmer.
"Always the same thing," replied Morand.
"Héloïse? Héloïse?" murmured the young woman, from between her closed teeth and white lips.