“Go on, dear Camille! go on.”
“The page ends there, madame.”
The paper was thin, and Camille, whose hand trembled, had some difficulty in detaching the leaves from one another. He succeeded, however, at last, and went on reading and writhing.
“By the way, you must address your next letter to me as Colonel Raynal. I was promoted just before this last affair, but had not time to tell you; and my wound stopped my writing till now.”
“There, there!” cried the baroness. “He was Colonel Raynal, and Colonel Raynal was not killed.”
The doctor implored her not to interrupt.
“Go on, Camille. Why do you hesitate? what is the matter? Do for pity’s sake go on, sir.”
Camille cast a look of agony around, and put his hand to his brow, on which large drops of cold perspiration, like a death dew, were gathering; but driven to the stake on all sides, he gasped on rather than read, for his eye had gone down the page.
“A namesake of mine, Commandant Raynal,”—
“Ah!”