He shut his eyes on that self-condemnation (which had not helped him), and did not trouble to open them when there came a knock at the door. Nor, as he still kept them closed when he said "Come in!" did he see who opened it, and Mr. Elphinstone's face in the doorway looking at him with a smile that died away to concern. He only heard the door shut again, and supposed that the visitor, his mother, or Monseigneur, had decided after all not to disturb him.
(2)
The treble voice, therefore, that said his name suddenly and softly gave him a violent start. He opened his eyes to see Anne-Hilarion standing by the closed door, carrying in both his hands a large glass bowl wherein there swam an enormously magnified goldfish.
"Anne!" he exclaimed, in a voice of utter incredulity.
And then the sight of him, unchanged, solemn-eyed and engaging as ever, the touching absurdity of his bringing a goldfish all the way from London to cheer a sick Chouan, caused La Vireville to break into a weak laugh that was half something else.
"Oh, M. le Chevalier!" cried Anne, gazing at him. Then he deposited his precious burden with haste on the floor, and, running to the bed, flung himself into the welcome of La Vireville's arm.
"My cabbage, my little comrade!" murmured the émigré, and he kissed the cold, fresh cheek again and again. "You are not changed at all—yes, I suppose you have grown. . . . Then you have not forgotten me after all? Have you come all this way to see your poor bedridden uncle—not by yourself, though, I trust?"
"Oh no," replied Anne-Hilarion, his arms round Fortuné's neck. "Grandpapa brought me. I wanted to see you so much!" He hugged him hard, then, drawing back a little, eyed him with a sudden doubt. La Vireville hastily withdrew his arm and pulled the bedclothes over his left side.
"Come and get up on the bed," he suggested, "and we can talk better."
The Comte de Flavigny, needing no second invitation, incontinently scrambled up—not without difficulty, for the bed was high.