He whispered it with awful solemnity. Mlle. Fouchette, now thoroughly frightened, recoiled from him. He was mad!
"That's right!" he cried. "That's right, mademoiselle! I'm not fit to touch you! No wonder you shrink from me! For I have blood on my hands,—his blood,—understand?—my friend's! Lerouge dead! dead! And by me!"
"What's that?" she demanded. "Lerouge dead? Nonsense! It is not so! Who told you that? I say it is not true!"
He seized her almost fiercely,—
"Not dead? Her brother not dead? Say it again! Give me some hope!" he pleaded, pitifully.
"I tell you again it is not so! I saw one who knows but a few minutes before I met you!"
He sank on his knees at her feet and kissed her hands, now trembling with excitement.
"Again!" he exclaimed.
"It is as true as God!" said she. "And he is doing well!"
He took her in his arms passionately, pouring out the thankfulness of his soul in kisses and loving caresses, sobbing like a child. They mingled their tears,—the blessed tears of joy and sympathy!