“I know nothing, monseigneur. Madam has always been so quiet in her life, although perhaps a little passionate in her ways, sometimes. Madam—madam, speak to me—to your poor Finette,” pleaded the girl, taking the passive hand that lay in her mistress’ lap.
A dumb spirit seemed to have seized upon the miserable victim of her own sins and crimes. With a swift glance at the maid, she averted her head coldly, and resumed her gaze into empty space.
Some crude idea had got into her dazed brain that she would betray herself if she spoke, and she had resolved on keeping utterly silent. The prince she had apparently forgotten.
“Remain with her,” said he. “I shall return presently.”
He went to his own private sitting-room, and, going to a desk, wrote a few lines to the most eminent doctor among those who devoted their sole attention to the study of lunacy. Then he rang for his valet—an elderly, severely respectable-looking man, with a tranquil manner.
“Do you know where to find this medical man?” the prince asked, showing him the envelope.
“I believe, monseigneur, he lives in the Rue de Rivoli—but I can easily find out,” answered the valet.
“Do so. Take the brougham, and do not return without him. It is a matter of life and death for me. Do not lose a moment—but wait for him if he should be absent.”
The doctor was not absent. He returned with the confidential servant within a quarter of an hour, and presented himself in the sitting-room, which the prince had not quitted, for he dared not go back to the presence of his distraught bride.
Accustomed as the medical man was to every variety of painful case of lunacy, his face betrayed some signs of surprise and compassion as he listened to the story of the unhappy Lucia’s loss of reason, but he expressed no opinion, simply bowing as he rose to obey the entreaty of the bridegroom that he would see the princess.