She thought it was Death’s self that confronted her in his face, but he spoke to her, trying faintly to smile.
“Do not come in,” he said, “I have met with—an accident. It is nothing. Do not come in. A servant——”
His last recollection was of her white face and white draperies as he fell, and somehow, dizzy, sick, and faint as he was, he seemed to hear her calling out, in a voice strangely like Jenny’s, “Arthur! Arthur!”
In less than half an hour the whole house was astir. Upstairs physicians were with the wounded man, downstairs Mrs. Trent talked and wept over her daughter, after the manner of all good women. She was fairly terrified by Bertha’s strange shudderings, quick, strained breath, and dilated eyes. She felt as if she could not reach her—as if she hardly made herself heard.
“You must calm yourself, Bertha,” she would say. “Try to calm yourself. We must hope for the best. Oh, how could it have happened!”
It was in the midst of this that a servant entered with a letter, which he handed to his mistress. The envelope bore upon it nothing but her own name.
She looked at it with a bewildered expression.
“For me?” she said.
“It fell from Monsieur’s pocket as we carried him upstairs,” replied the man.
“Don’t mind it now, Bertha,” said her mother, “Ah, poor M. Villefort!”