Charlotte turns hastily. “What news, doctor?” she asks.
“None, madame; no news whatever.”
But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D’Argenton, and knew that the physician’s words were false.
“And what do the officers of the Company say?” continued the mother, determined to learn the truth.
Labassandre undertook to answer, and while he spoke, the doctor contrived to convey to D’Argenton that the Cydnus had gone to the bottom,—“a collision at sea—every soul was lost.”
D’Argenton’s face never changed, and it would have been difficult to form any idea of his feelings.
“I have been at work,” he said. “Excuse me, I need the fresh air.”
“You are right,” said Charlotte; “go out for a walk;” and the poor woman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the high-born ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this evening delighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace—that she may yield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. This is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sends her to her attic.
“Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind is very dismal on the balcony.”
“No, I am not afraid; leave me.”