"Was that why he was delirious last night?"
"How do you know he was?"
"I heard you say so just now."
The old surgeon looked sharply at him. "You did not hear what he was saying when you came to the door early this morning, did you?—Not, of course, that it matters," he added hastily.
Laurent stared at him. "No, I didn't catch a word. Why, was he saying anything uncomplimentary about me?"
"No, no!" returned M. Perrelet. "Oh, no, not at all! Besides, delirium is too strong a word; he was only rambling." And he climbed up, but not before Laurent had seen his face relax in obvious relief. "Well, I must be off, Monsieur de Courtomer; I have an appointment. I sincerely trust that you will keep out of Guitton's reach."
He bent down, gripped his late assistant's hand very hard for a second, and, looking fixedly at the glove he was pulling on, said gruffly, "Life is full of disillusionments, young man; never trust it!—But all the same, though I have never regretted being a bachelor, I could have done with a son—if he were like you! . . . Get on, mare!" And the gig passed out of the yard, leaving Laurent thoroughly bewildered. What an extraordinary thing to say to him!
As he got into the farmhouse he heard Aymar's voice calling, an unusual phenomenon. He hurried to his open door. L'Oiseleur was sitting up in bed.
"Ask M. Perrelet to come in here again when he has finished with Madeleine," he said earnestly. "I have something to say to him—something particular."
"Oh, I am sorry!" ejaculated Laurent. "He has just driven off. He did not see Madeleine at all."