“Then,” cried Andrée, “M. de Charny is—dangerously ill?”
“My dear young lady, if he is not out of danger by this time to-morrow, if before that time I cannot quell the fever that devours him, M. de Charny is a dead man.”
Andrée bit her lips till the blood came, and clenched her hands till the nails stuck into the flesh, to stifle the cry that was ready to burst from her. Having conquered herself, she said, “My brother will not fly; he wounded M. de Charny in fair fight, and if he has killed him, he will take his chance.”
The doctor was deceived. She did not come on her own account, he thought.
“How does the queen take it?” he asked.
“The queen? I know not. What is it to her?”
“But she likes your brother.”
“Well, he is safe; and perhaps she will defend him if he is accused.”
“Then, mademoiselle, you have learned what you wished. Let your brother fly, or not, as he pleases; that is your affair. Mine is to do the best to-night for the wounded man; without which, death will infallibly carry him off. Adieu.”
Andrée fled back to her room, locked herself in, and falling on her knees by the side of her bed, “My God!” cried she, with a torrent of burning tears, “you will not leave this young man to die who has done no wrong, and who is so loved in this world. Oh! save him, that I may see a God of mercy, and not of vengeance.” Her strength gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. When her senses returned to her, her first muttered words were, “I love him! oh, I love him!”