“O Dionysia! Oh, my darling child, how I have suffered! How long you have been! But it is all over now. Come, come, come!”
And he almost carried her into the parlor, and put her down tenderly into a large easy-chair. He knelt down by her, smiling with happiness; but, when he had taken her hands in his, he said,—
“Your hands are burning. You have a fever!”
He looked at her: she had raised her veil.
“You are pale as death!” he went on. “Your eyes are red and swollen!”
“I have cried, dear papa,” she replied gently.
“Cried! Why?”
“Alas, I have failed!”
As if moved by a sudden shock, M. de Chandore started up, and cried,—
“By God’s holy name the like has not been heard since the world was made! What! you went, you Dionysia de Chandore, to him in his prison; you begged him”—