"From one who pities you."
Whilst reading these words, perused, with such deep anguish and sickness of heart, so many times through the long midnight hours, the blue, cold lips of M. d'Harville appeared convulsively to spell each syllable of this fatal billet.
At this moment the chamber door opened and a servant entered; the man who now made his appearance was old, even gray-headed, but the expression of his countenance was frank and honest. The noise of the man entering disturbed not the marquis from his bitter contemplations; he merely turned his head without altering his position, but still grasped the letter in his clenched hands.
"What do you want?" inquired he, sternly, of the servant.
The man, instead of answering, continued to gaze with an air of painful surprise at the disordered state of the room; then, regarding his master more attentively, exclaimed:
"Blood on your clothes! My lord, my lord! How is this? You have hurt yourself,—and all alone, too; why, my lord, did you not summon me, as of old, when these attacks came on?"
"Begone!"
"I entreat your lordship's pardon, but your fire is out,—the cold is intense,—indeed, I must remind your lordship that after your late—your—"
"Will you be silent? Leave me I say!"
"Pray do not be angry, my lord," replied the trembling valet; "but, if your lordship pleases to recollect, you appointed M. Doublet to be here to-day at half past ten, and he is now waiting with the notary."