CHAPTER XVI.
AT eight o’clock that evening I called upon M. Louis de Franchi, to inquire whether he had anything to confide to me. But he begged me to wait till next morning, saying:
“The night will bring counsel with it.”
Next morning, therefore, instead of calling at eight, which would have given us plenty of time to go to the meeting, I called at half-past seven.
Louis was already writing in his study.
He looked up as I entered, and I noticed how very pale he was.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I am writing to my mother. You will find the morning papers there; if you can amuse yourself with them you will see a charming feuilleton by M. Mèry in the Presse.”
I took the paper thus indicated, and contrasted the livid pallor of the speaker with his calm and sweet voice.
I endeavoured to read, but I could not fix my attention, the letters brought no meaning with them.
In about five minutes Louis said,