ABOUT three hours had passed since the doctor had arrived at the farm.
David, discreetly withdrawn into the library, waited with mortal anxiety the news of Madame Bastien, with whom the doctor and Frederick remained.
Once only, David, standing in the door of the library, and seeing Marguerite rapidly passing, as she came from the chamber of her mistress, called, in a low voice:
"Ah, well, Marguerite?"
"Ah, M. David!" was the only reply of the weeping woman, who passed on without stopping.
"She is dying," said David, returning to the library.
And pale, his features distorted, his heart broken, he threw himself in an armchair, hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears, vainly trying to suppress his sobs.
"I have realised the despair of this restrained, hidden, impossible love," murmured he. "I thought I had suffered cruelly,—what is it to suffer derision compared to the fear of losing Marie? To lose her,—she to die—no, no! oh, but I will at least see her!"
And almost crazed with grief, David rushed across the room, but he stopped at the door.
"She is dying, perhaps, and I have no right to assist at her agony. What am I here? A stranger. Let me listen—nothing—nothing—the silence of the tomb. My God! in this chamber, where she perhaps is in the agony of death, what is happening? Ah, some one is coming out. It is Pierre."