Lucia shivered, but made no response. They drove fast, and were soon at the gates of the stately pile where the bride was to be lodged suitably to her rank.
The prince lifted her from the carriage, and drawing her hand once more within his arm, led her up to the wide, richly carpeted staircase to the suite on the first floor.
Finette had preceded her mistress by five or ten minutes, and was waiting with the other servants near the entrance. The newly married pair walked through the bowing files of lackeys, and passed into the principal sitting-room—a long, lofty salon, glowing with softly modulated colors, rare china, mirrored panels, rich draperies, and flowers.
The prince closed the door, and sat down on a stool by the trembling Lucia.
“My dear love,” he said, with the deepest anxiety, yet resolved on giving her the opportunity of granting some explanation, “what happened to you in the chapel just now?”
“I don’t know,” she vacantly replied. “What?—how?—I do not recollect. I felt very ill.”
“You are not well now.”
“No; I am not.”
“You seem totally different from your usual self.”
“I feel so—I feel like—I cannot say how I feel—my brain is on fire.”