“Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal. Come nearer, my friend; come nearer. You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It will soon leave me nothing but a few handfuls of ashes of all I possessed.”
“It is a great misfortune,” replied the excellent mayor; “but, after all, it is less than we apprehended. God be thanked, you are safe!”
“Who knows? I am suffering terribly.”
The countess trembled.
“Trivulce!” she whispered in a tone of entreaty. “Trivulce!”
Never did lover glance at his beloved with more tenderness than Count Claudieuse did at his wife.
“Pardon me, my dear Genevieve, pardon me, if I show any want of courage.”
A sudden nervous spasm seized him; and then he exclaimed in a loud voice, which sounded like a trumpet,—
“Sir! But sir! Thunder and lightning! You kill me!”
“I have some chloroform here,” replied the physician coldly.