"God in heaven!" muttered Pougeot. "He'll pay for this!"
"Yes, I—I think he'll pay for it, but—Lucien, do nothing until I am able to decide things with you. Say nothing to anyone, not even to the doctor. And don't give our names."
"No, no, I'll see to that."
"The girl mustn't talk, tell her she—mustn't talk. And—Lucien?"
"Yes?"
"She may be delirious—I may be delirious, I feel queer—now. You must—make sure of these—nurses."
"Yes, Paul, I will."
"And—watch the girl! Something has happened to—her mind. She's forgotten or—remembered! Get the best specialist in Paris and—get Duprat. Do whatever they advise—no matter what it costs. Everything depends on—her."
"I'll do exactly as you say, old friend," whispered the other. Then, at a warning signal from the nurse: "Don't worry now. Just rest and get well." He rose to go. "Until to-morrow, Paul."
The sick man's reply was only a faint murmur, and Pougeot stole softly out of the room, turning at the door for an anxious glance toward the white bed.