Charles looked and decided.
“You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust them to me?”
“No,” said M. de Cadanet, sharply, “to no one. Do it here by my bed. I would burn them myself, but that I am too— O God, this weakness!”
“You shall see your wishes carried out close to you,” Charles promised, consolingly. “I am only going into the next room to get a candle, because those silver ones are so heavy.” He dashed through the anteroom where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amélie did not see, a couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and he was playing a dangerous game.
M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him, except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and clutched the papers.
“Here it is,” Charles said, cheerfully; “and now you shall see your letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Léon is not here to assist. May I have them?”
To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand, by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly snatched it up, and cried out:
“Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had been set on fire!”
“Is anything wrong?” asked Amélie’s voice, anxiously, at the door.
Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. “No, no, nothing! Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn, without danger to yourself.”