"I hardly know, my dear Suzanne. It will all depend upon this," he sighed, drawing a bulky envelope from his pocket as he spoke.
"What is that?"
"A letter from M. Cloarek."
"He is alive, then, thank Heaven!"
"Yes, and his only remaining hope is in this letter, and I am to give the letter to you, M. Onésime."
"To me?"
"And I am to tell you what you are to do with it. But first let me ask if you feel able to get up?"
"Yes, oh, yes!" exclaimed the young man, making a quick movement.
"And I say you are not. It would be exceedingly imprudent in you, Onésime," cried his aunt.
"Excuse me, Suzanne," interposed Segoffin. "I am as much opposed to anything like imprudence as you can possibly be, but (I can confess it now, you see) as I have had considerable experience in injuries of this kind during the last twelve years, I am probably much better able to judge than you are, so I am going to feel your nephew's pulse and note his symptoms carefully, and if I find him able to go down to the parlour where Mlle. Sabine is, I—No, no, not so fast!" added Segoffin, laying a restraining hand on Onésime, who, upon hearing Sabine's name, had evinced an evident intention of springing out of bed. "I have not made my diagnosis yet. Do me the favour to keep quiet. If you don't, I will take the letter away, and lock you up here in your room."