"Yes, I have heard that story before," said Horatia in a strange voice, which the Marquis was too busy to notice.
"Here it is," he said triumphantly. "You see, he died on August the 12th." And he handed her, over the writing-table, a thin ill-printed little pamphlet, the catalogue of the library of M. Adolphe des Charnières, chevalier de St. Louis, décedé le 12 Août 1831.
"I am sure those books of his are here somewhere," he said, seeing the fixity with which his sister-in-law was staring at the catalogue. "I think they would interest you if I could only find them." And he made another dive floorwards.
"Please do not trouble—another time..." came in a breathless voice from Horatia, and when Emmanuel turned, she had gone, taking the catalogue with her.
"Dear me," thought the Marquis, "I must tell her that it is no use trying to buy any books from that list; they were all sold, every one." And at last he rang for a light.
(3)
With the catalogue of M. des Charnières' books still clutched tightly in her hands, Horatia was standing perfectly still in the middle of the half-furnished nursery. She did not know when Armand would return, nor how much more she would have of this sick agony. Why she had carried it to this place, where it seemed a thousand times more poignant, she did not know.
It was yesterday that she had sat here by the fire; yesterday that she had had a happy dream; yesterday that Armand, out of solicitude, had awakened her. On the table lay the pattern of the little cap for which she had been to get the lace; over the mantel-piece the Madonna gazed with absorbed, serene eyes at her Son....
Armand's step at the door—already.
"They said you wanted to see me at once," said he, coming briskly in. "I was sure I should find you here. But—whatever is the matter?"