"I wish he had not!" broke in the faint, bitter voice. "You are kind, Doctor . . . but if you would only let me die . . ."
This was becoming unbearable. Never had Laurent conceived of the La Rocheterie he had known before, though he was young enough, than as a man—even, by reason of his quiet self-possession and his prestige, than as a man older, perhaps, than he really was. He sounded now like a broken-hearted boy. The listener put his hands over his ears.
He kept them there till he was sure that the voices had ceased. A little afterwards he heard M. Perrelet emerge very cautiously and tiptoe over to his bed. The young man's instant pretence of being asleep did not deceive the doctor. He bent over him till his mouth was almost at his ear and whispered, "Did you by any chance hear what was said just now?"
"Yes," breathed Laurent with his eyes shut.
"You won't take any notice of it, my dear boy, will you?" pleaded the surgeon in the same almost inaudible tone. "He's nearly crazy after that damnable strain."
"That's obvious. And therefore—after what he said—I had better be moved elsewhere."
"No, no, I can't spare you. He will get over this morbid feeling about you as the effects of that scene wear off."
"But shall I get over his having had it?" thought Laurent. He said nothing, but suddenly buried his face in the pillow.
"You will stay—and take no notice?" queried the voice in his ear; and after a moment Laurent gave a smothered assent.
The grasp on his shoulder tightened. "Good boy!" whispered M. Perrelet, and went away.