Octave arose and tried to walk, but was obliged to lean upon his gun.
“I think I have twisted my foot,” said he, and he carried his hand to it as if he felt a sharp pain there.
“The devil! it may be a sprain,” observed the Baron, coming toward them; “sit down. Do you think you will be able to walk?”
“Yes, but I fear hunting would be too much for me; I will return to the house.”
“Do you wish us to make a litter and carry you?”
“You are laughing at me; it’s not so bad as that. I will walk back slowly, and will take a foot-bath in my room.”
“Lean upon me, then, and I will help you,” said the artist, offering his arm.
“Thanks; I do not need you,” Octave replied; “go to the devil!” he continued, in an expressive aside.
“Capisco!” Marillac replied, in the same tone, giving his arm an expressive pressure. “Excuse me,” said he aloud, “I am not willing that you should go alone. I will be your Antigone—
Antigone me reste, Antigone est and fille.