“At least, my lord duke, the pulse revives a little.”
“He is saved!” said the marshal.
“Do not cherish false hopes, my lord duke,” answered the doctor, gravely: “the pulse revives, owing to the powerful applications to the feet, but I know not what will be the issue of the crisis.”
“Father! father! do you hear me?” cried the marshal, seeing the old man slightly move his head, and feebly raise his eyelids. He soon opened his eyes, and this time their intelligence had returned.
“Father! you live—you know me!” cried the marshal, giddy with joy and hope.
“Pierre! are you there?” said the old man, in a weak voice. “Your hand—give—it—” and he made a feeble movement.
“Here, father!” cried the marshal, as he pressed the hands of the old man in his own.
Then, yielding to an impulse of delight, he bent over his father, covered his hands, face, and hair with kisses, and repeated: “He lives! kind heaven, he lives! he is saved!”
At this instant, the noise of the struggle which had recommenced between the rabble, the Wolves, and the Devourers, reached the ears of the dying man.
“That noise! that noise!” said he: “they are fighting.”