Manicamp returned no other answer than a deep sigh.
“And so you said that the comte is dangerously wounded?” continued the princess.
“Yes, Madame; one of his hands is shattered, and he has a bullet lodged in his breast.”
“Gracious heavens!” resumed the princess, with a feverish excitement, “this is horrible! Monsieur de Manicamp! a hand shattered, do you say, and a bullet in his breast? And that coward! that wretch! that assassin, De Wardes, did it!”
Manicamp seemed overcome by a violent emotion. He had, in fact, displayed no little energy in the latter part of his speech. As for Madame, she entirely threw aside all regard for the formal observances of propriety society imposes; for when, with her, passion spoke in accents either of anger or sympathy, nothing could restrain her impulses. Madame approached Manicamp, who had subsided in a chair, as if his grief were a sufficiently powerful excuse for his infraction of the laws of etiquette. “Monsieur,” she said, seizing him by the hand, “be frank with me.”
Manicamp looked up.
“Is M. de Guiche in danger of death?”
“Doubly so, Madame,” he replied; “in the first place on account of the hemorrhage which has taken place, an artery having been injured in the hand; and next, in consequence of the wound in his breast, which may, the doctor is afraid, at least, have injured some vital part.”
“He may die, then?”
“Die, yes, Madame; and without even having had the consolation of knowing that you have been told of his devotion.”