“Perfectly, perfectly.” Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. “It is terribly sad.”
“He must indeed have been desperate,” said the old count, sadly.
“Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had happened? Through André, I imagine?” There was another silence of exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back, whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.
“Is it quite necessary, my friend?”
“Quite. He will never rest until it is told.”
“If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest.”
“No, no, my dear Amélie; it is business—business, I assure you, which only I can arrange. Now, go.” He went back to the bedside, and sat there impatiently before he ventured to remark: “André, of course, told you?”
“No,” returned the old count, feebly. “You are quite wrong. It was Léon himself who told me.”
“Ah! Repented,” said Lemaire, with a sneer.
“Not at all.” A weak smile flitted across the sick man’s face. “If you will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may read it. Read it. Read it aloud.” Charles had it in his hand. He glanced at the bed. “Aloud?”