“Without doubt; for at least, one time in his ship, he left me to weep and grieve in peace, and—”
“But that was not what he said. H’m—h’m—the honeyed words of this insolent prattler were quite capable of making you forget your grief for a time, no doubt.”
Stephanette, indignant, was about to reply to her betrothed, when the whistle of Mlle, des Anbiez called her to that lady’s apartment.
She entered, after having thrown an angry glance at Luquin.
The captain was in the way of repenting of his suspicions when the majordomo Laramée, coming precipitately out of the chamber of Raimond V., said:
“Here you are, Luquin, come quick and help me to carry monseigneur to the commander. He is too weak to walk; we will carry him in his armchair.”
Luquin followed Laramée, and entered the baron’s chamber. The old gentleman was still very pale, a wide black bandage wrapped his head, but he had partly recovered his vivacity and his energy. Abbé Mascarolus was with him.
“You say, then, abbé, that this poor young man is about to die, and he wishes to speak to me?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And how is my brother Pierre?”