“But I have no heart, no tongue to fill them with my dire news,” Claude stammered, and the advocate resumed, growing impatient:
“Of my ward what can you tell me that is untoward? Of myself say anything: foretell disaster, prophecy my death;—but what of her?—you say she lives?”
“She does.”
“Is well?”
Claude shook his head, and remained silent.
“Sir, let your lips pronounce my doom at once,” said the advocate, striving to be calm, yet alarmed and irritated; “Proceed:—I am ashamed to say it, but I tremble. What has befallen my ward, what trouble has alighted on my child?—for so I call her. Claude Montigny, what is it brings you here betwixt night and day, with tidings that you falter to deliver?”
“Calm yourself;” counselled Claude in a warning tone.
“I will;” answered the advocate; “I do;—resolve me quickly.”
“I fear to do so,” Montigny uttered pathetically, as if his resolution had suddenly given way.
“Let me hear it, torture me no longer:” cried the advocate imperatively: “Perfect knowledge, perhaps, may stun me; but far worse to bear than were a shower of vitriol poured on a green wound, are these distilled, dire drops of apprehension. Sir, are you guilty that you thus stand dumb? What have you done injurious towards my ward, that you so linger upon the street, and to my queries but gaze like one demented? Sir, I charge you, tell me without more reserve or hesitation, lest at last I listen to you with less of fear than of anger. You have been—”