“Yes, mademoiselle, your brother.”
Had he had the control of events, Marius de Tregars would probably not have been in such haste to reveal this fact.
But how could he control himself in presence of that bed where a poor girl was, perhaps, about to die, sacrificed to the terrors and to the cravings of the miserable woman who was her mother,—to die at twenty, victim of the basest and most odious of crimes? How could he help feeling an intense pity at the sight of this unfortunate young woman who had endured every thing that a human being can suffer, whose life had been but a long and painful struggle, whose courage had risen above all the woes of adversity, and who had been able to pass without a stain through the mud and mire of Paris.
Besides, Marius was not one of those men who mistrust their first impulse, who manifest their emotion only for a purpose, who reflect and calculate before giving themselves up to the inspirations of their heart.
Lucienne was the daughter of the Marquis de Tregars: of that he was absolutely certain. He knew that the same blood flowed in his veins and in hers; and he told her so.
He told her so, above all, because he believed her in danger; and he wished, were she to die, that she should have, at least, that supreme joy. Poor Lucienne! Never had she dared to dream of such happiness. All her blood rushed to her cheeks; and, in a voice vibrating with the most intense emotion,
“Ah, now, yes,” she uttered, “I would like to live.”
The commissary of police, also, felt moved.
“Do not be alarmed, my child,” he said in his kindest tone. “Before two weeks you will be up. M. de Tregars is a great physician.”
In the mean time, she had attempted to raise herself on her pillow; and that simple effort had wrung from her a cry of anguish.