Vivienne, who had felt no sorrow at the death of Count Mont d’Oro, now wept unrestrainedly when she learned that her beloved brother Julien was no more.
“I have, I have! Heaven forgive me! I will go to him. I must look into his face again. I will beg him to forgive me. You say he is dead, but when I speak to him, he will come back to life and forgive me, for I loved him, and he loved me.”
Pascal smiled grimly, and touched his forehead significantly. To one of the men, he said in an undertone: “She has lost her reason.”
Vivienne was determined to see Julien. She started towards the door, but Pascal grasped her arm and drew her back:
“Stay! You shall not insult him with your presence.”
At that moment, Dr. Procida entered. He was a dapper little man, with small, beady eyes, and was clad in a suit of black. His voice was soft and apologetic, his manners suave; he approached Pascal, bowing low:
“How can I serve you?”
“My worst fears are realised, Doctor,” said Pascal. “My poor sister is mad.”
The doctor rubbed his hands together—professionally, it seemed to those who saw him; in reality, gleefully—for he was saying to himself: “A thousand francs in my pocket, at least.”
“I am not surprised,” said the doctor. “The events of the evening have been too much for her sensitive nature, but we will soon have her cured, Monsieur Batistelli. What she needs, and must have, is retirement—rest. Our private asylum at Salvanetra offers the first, and I will see that she gets the other.”