I rushed out of the house, took M. de Malmy in my arms, and, at the moment when he tried to stand, I took him into the house, and laid him on M. Gerhaut’s bed.
“He is dead—he is dead! They have killed him, the wretches!” cried the unhappy and despairing girl, who was covered with the blood which had flowed from his wound.
At this moment, M. de Malmy opened his eyes.
“He is not dead, Mdlle. Sophie,” cried I.
“Oh!” said she.
And she threw herself prostrate on the bed.
“Leave me—leave me!” said M. de Malmy, making an effort to lift himself up. “I must go and seek M. de Bouillé.”
Pain and weakness compelled him to fall back again.
“In the name of heaven, stay there, Alphonse!” cried Mdlle. Sophie. “Do not move, or you will uselessly throw away your life. You owe me somewhat; grant me that favor.”