“Yes, that is true, you are right!” replied the count. “I shall have her carried to her room.”
And he was stretching out his hand to pull the bell, when Sir Thorn stopped him, saying in a voice of deep emotion,—
“Never mind, count. I’ll carry her myself.”
And, without waiting for an answer, he took her up like a feather, and carried her to her room, followed by Count Ville-Handry, and his young wife. He could, of course, not remain in Henrietta’s room; but it looked as if he could not tear himself away. For some time the servants, quite amazed, saw him walk up and down the passage with feverish steps, and, in spite of his usual impassiveness, giving all the signs of extraordinary excitement. Every ten minutes he paused in his walk to ask at the door, with a voice full of anxiety,—
“Well?”
“She is still in the same condition,” was the answer.
In the meantime two physicians had arrived, but without obtaining any better results than the countess and her friends. They had exhausted all the usual remedies for such cases, and began, evidently, to be not a little surprised at the persistency of the symptoms. Nor could Count Ville-Handry suppress his growing anxiety as he saw them consulting in the recess of one of the windows, discussing more energetic means to be employed. At last, toward midnight, Sir Thorn saw the young countess come out of Henrietta’s room.
“How is she?” he cried out.
Then the countess said, speaking very loud, so as to be heard by the servants,—
“She is coming to; and that is why I am leaving her. She dislikes me so terribly, that poor unhappy child, that I fear my presence might do her harm.”