“Certainly, Father,” responded the Vicomte politely; and as the Curé came round to the other side of the bed he sat up, shaking back his loosened hair, and unfastened his shirt.
“Madame has been dressing it, has she not? It is rather a pity to disturb her work,” observed the priest as he gently unwound the bandages. “But I should like to see the place. . . . My dear Louis, it is only half healed!”
“I know it,” said the sufferer, smiling ruefully. “It keeps on breaking out again, and that is why I am getting so tired of the confounded thing.”
“Does it pain you more when I touch it?” asked his visitor, making the experiment.
“It makes no difference. Or perhaps I should be nearer the truth,” added Louis in his most graceful manner, “if I said that it made it easier.”
The priest smiled too, as his long skilful fingers replaced the bandage. The two understood each other, as always, very well.
“Now lie down, my son. This needs looking after, and, please God, we shall have you as sound as ever in a day or two. You have not had a fair chance. I wish I could ease the pain.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Saint-Ermay, obeying. “Only it is wearing to the temper. I have it every night now, but it was rather worse this evening. By the way, you understood why—why I went out without your blessing? Just then I was afraid of alarming my aunt.”
“I quite understood.”
“I thought you would forgive me. I believe I scarcely said good-night to Gilbert either. . . . I really did not quite know what I was doing. . . . Don’t go, Father!”