That morning, about eleven o'clock, Louis came over to tell us that Monsieur was feeling much better, and that we need no longer worry about him. We all gazed at him curiously,—so curiously, I'm afraid, that he noticed it.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You all act as if you were seeing a spook. Is there anything wrong about me anywhere?"
"Oh, no!" I hurried to assure him. "We were wondering how Monsieur was getting on."
"Well, he's getting on famously," said Louis, "but I certainly did manage to upset him. I was afraid he wouldn't take the news well, but I didn't dream it would be as bad as that. I only supposed he would rant and tear his hair. I'm horribly sorry, for I'm actually getting a bit fond of the old gentleman, queer as he is."
"Did he say anything more to you about it?" asked the Imp.
I knew she couldn't resist asking that. I was crazy to, myself, but couldn't pluck up the courage.
"Not another word," Louis replied. "I expected he'd say a whole dictionary full. He did start off once with a word or two, but evidently changed his mind. He hasn't even hinted at it since."
This seemed a little queer, but we decided (after Louis had gone) that Monsieur was probably putting off the ordeal till he felt stronger. That would be entirely likely. So we told each other that by the next day Louis would probably know the whole strange truth.