"And thence," continued Duplin, anxious, by fortifying his (Miles's) heart with contempt for her, to prepare him to receive calmly the intelligence he had gained through the public prints, "madame with her child, sailed the other day for the Mediterranean for Malta; in fact, where I last heard of milord's yacht."
"True!" ejaculated Miles through his closed teeth, as he bent over his sketch.
"And now, mon ami," added the other hurriedly, "I have something more to tell you. I do not think you need much courage to hear it; for after all, 'tis better, far better thus."
"What would you tell me, Duplin? speak?" and he looked up perfectly unconscious of the truth.
"Well then, Tremenhere, you are free; madame is dead!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Miles, starting up pale and rigid; and, strange contradiction of the thought which the other endeavoured to convey to his mind, the fair, living Minnie seemed to stand before him.
"Be a man!" said Duplin, soothingly; "think how false she was; think how painful a tie—of the disgrace!" and he grasped his arm.
"Where did she die?" asked Miles, passing his hand over his brow to collect his thoughts; for he was in a stupor, not understanding really what the other meant to convey to him.
"She was lost; the vessel was wrecked going to Malta," answered Duplin, who had unfolded the Marseilles paper, and, suspecting the contents sent by some unknown hand, placed the open sheet before the stupefied Tremenhere on the easel. Gradually the glazed eyes fell upon the page, and the names stood out bold and clear before him, "Madame Tremenhere (Anglaise) et son enfant," he dropped silently on the seat, and, shading his eyes, gazed on the sheet motionless and speechless.
"Be yourself—be a man!" said Duplin, once more touching his arm.