As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay upon it motionless and silent,—only a large tear trembled on her cheek. Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to’ her.
“Oh, Bertha!” she cried, “how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poor little soul! Is it true that you are so weak as all that? I heard mamma and Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said you must go to Normandy and be nursed.”
“I don’t want to go to Normandy,” said Bertha, “I—I am too tired. I only want to lie still and rest. I have been out too much.”
Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural manner Jenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed her fervently.
“Oh, Bertha!” she said, “you must do anything—anything that will make you well—if it is only for Arthur’s sake. He loves you so—so terribly.”
Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. “Does he,” she said, “love me so ‘terribly’? Poor M. Villefort?”
She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society, though not as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings at home, some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M. Villefort or Edmondstone read aloud or talked.
In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and unhappiness grew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and morbid.
One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a short time, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken with suppressed emotion.
“That man is killing you!” he exclaimed. “You are dying by inches! I cannot bear it!”