“But this is a persecution,” said D’Argenton. “Let us pass. If the gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician.”
“He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the hospital.”
“At the hospital!”
“Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you wish to see him you must hurry.”
“Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some trap laid ready for you;” and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs.
“Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can have a heart like this!”
Charlotte turned toward her. “Show me where he is,” she said; and the two women hurried through the streets, leaving D’Argenton in a state of rage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies.
Just as Madame Bélisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,—a young girl and an old man.
A divine face bent over Jack. “It is I, my love, it is Cécile.”
It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler than usual by reason of her tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was the slender one that had already brought the youth such happiness, and yet did its part in bringing him where we now see him; for fate is often cruel enough to strike you through your dearest and best. The sick youth opens his weary eyes to see that he is not dreaming. Cécile is really there; she implores his pardon, and explains why she gave him such pain. Ah, if she had but known that their destinies were so similar!