“Oh, dear, she is white as her handkerchief,” said the Archduchess; “it is my fault for scolding her. Poor girl, take a seat! Do you think you could go on with your reading?”
“Certainly; I hope so, at least.”
But hardly had she cast her eyes on the page before black specks began to swarm and float before her sight and they made the print indecipherable.
She turned pale anew; cold perspiration beaded her brow; and the dark ring round her eyes with which Taverney had blamed his daughter enlarged so that the princesses exclaimed, as Andrea’s faltering made her raise her head.
“Again? look, duchess, the poor child must be ill, for she is losing her senses.”
“The young lady must get home as soon as possible,” said the Mistress of the Household drily. “Thus commences the small pox.”
The priest rose and stole away on tiptoe, not wanting to risk his beauty.
“Yes,” said the Dauphiness, in whose arms the girl came to, “you had better retire, but do not go indoors at once. A stroll in the garden may do you good. Oh, send me back my abbe, who is yonder among the tulips.”
Andrea was glad to be out doors, but she felt little improved. To reach the priest she had to make a circuit. She walked with lowered head, heavy with the weight of the strange dulness with which she had suffered since rising. She paid no attention to the birds hunting each other among the blooming hedges or to the bees humming amid the thyme and lilacs. She did not remark, only a few paces off, Dr. Jussieu giving a lesson in gardening to Gilbert. Since the pupil perceived the promenader, he made but a poor auditor.
“Oh, heavens!” interrupted he, suddenly extending his arms.