“No, I think not. I cannot remember it.”
“Your husband has not mentioned it?”
“Never. Has anything happened there? Perhaps you would like us to make inquiries?”
“No. Be quiet. Nothing has happened since—since—a child was born.”
“Ah, there is a child.” Her voice had changed; she looked down, and a sigh escaped her.
“Certainly. And a boy.”
Silence followed. She said presently, wistfully, “I suppose, then, they are very happy?”
“Perhaps. I do not know, and I do not care, but—in old days I knew Poissy.”
He spoke slowly and with difficulty, his voice dropping until it was scarcely audible, and after these last words he relapsed into silence. Amélie again laid down the paper, and took up her work—a little blouse for an orphan in whom she was interested; she was extremely charitable, and as Charles did not give her much money, and always talked of his poverty, she consoled herself by working for her poor. Her nature was singularly placid, and she was fairly happy; indeed, she would have declared she wanted nothing, except perhaps a little more money for her orphans. A really kind heart gave her an interest in the sick man, and she did not suffer from his sharp speeches because she did not discover their edge. Now she sat and thought tranquilly of fat little Marie, how fast she outgrew her frocks, and what was to be done for another when this was worn out. A thin white streak of sunshine, penetrating through the outer blinds, just struck her pale brown hair, wreathed in a large coil at the back of her head, and stole across the table to M. de Cadanet’s hand, which lay upon a book. The hand was very thin and parchment-like; every now and then it twitched slightly, and his head sank lower. Amélie, who had more than once glanced in his direction, became at last uneasy at the profound stillness; she laid down her work, and half rose, resting her fingers on the table. It was possible that he might be asleep, but sleep was unusual with him, and the least movement generally enough to disturb him. As he did not stir she moved towards him noiselessly, until she was close, but his face was so sunk that she was obliged to drop on her knees to gain a sight of it. Then she uttered a cry, for it was drawn and distorted.
It did not require the verdict of the doctor, hurriedly sent for, to tell them that M. de Cadanet had had a stroke. He was carried to the adjoining bedroom, helpless and speechless. Mme. Lemaire despatched a messenger to her husband, and made her own arrangements to remain in the house and to obtain a nurse. Charles did not arrive until late, and fully approved her purpose. He had no affection for his wife, but was never wanting in civility.