M. Charles whistled.
“You think it was imprudent?” said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes towards him.
“I think he was a desperate man.”
“Well, I still looked upon him as his father’s son. However, in his presence, I directed it to you—” His voice died away, and the next words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.
“Drink this, sir, I implore you!”
“I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come back, but I am very ill—very, very ill.”
He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet’s moments, and that its work was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his hands with disappointment.
“Your wife is a good woman.”
“Oh, she is!” He added, “Apparently she takes after her aunt.”
M. de Cadanet’s answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after another pause he remarked: