She fell back in her chair. If only he might kneel and kiss her feet, try—though he knew he could not—to comfort her. But the memory of this scene’s parody, played out falsely before, lay like a bitter flood between him and her. This time it was true, his news.
Steps outside, thank God! Roland, perhaps, or Mme Tessier, whom he had forgotten. He hurried to the door, caught at the passerby—Suzon.
“Go in to the Duchesse at once,” he said. “I have had to bring her terrible news—I can bear no more. The Duc was shot at Mirabel this morning. Go in, I say!” He pushed her in.
(2)
On the very threshold, as he opened the door into the street to escape, M. de Brencourt all but ran into an officer of hussars. The officer was young, handsome, rigid, set about the mouth.
“Does Mme de Trélan lodge here?” he asked with a foot on the doorstep.
“Yes,” replied the Comte. “Excuse me, Monsieur——”
The officer barred the way. “Pardon me a moment. I must see her.”
“You cannot,” retored de Brencourt, stopped despite himself. “She cannot see anyone.”
“She knows then!” said the young man, and there was relief in his tone.