Mme. Lemaire stood in the window of M. de Cadanet’s sitting-room, looking out. The day before he had been wheeled into it, and with the fretfulness of an invalid had declared it was very strange that those who could walk about and see so much had nothing entertaining to tell him. Amélie had accepted the reproach cheerfully, and betaken herself to one of the long windows, with its lace and ugly red moreen curtains, hoping to find materials for his distraction.
But the materials were few, or she did not know how to make the best of them. He did not in the least care to hear of a grey sister, with snowy collar and flapping cap, walking with her school; nor, though it made a pretty picture, of the balcony opposite, on which a girl in a black dress stood with her arm on a railing looking down at the busy street below. At last he desired her, irritably, to say no more, and was silent.
The room in which they were was not M. de Cadanet’s study, for that looked into the court-yard, and this into the street. It had been chosen because it was sunnier and more cheerful. But the cheerfulness being a failure, he presently insisted upon being wheeled into the study. There, with the stove lit, though it was very warm, he seemed to revive, and Mme. Lemaire left him in charge of André, with many instructions as to food and rest. Charles was burning with impatience as to the conversation which lay before him, and of which the subject was to be Léon de Beaudrillart, but the doctor had forbidden any talk that threatened excitement, until a few more days had passed, and the count was stronger.
When Amélie arrived at the house the next morning, she found her uncle in bed and very much weaker. It seemed that he had insisted upon André fetching a tin box from the library, which, when it was unlocked, turned out to contain a bundle of papers. These M. de Cadanet had studied for a long time, afterwards replacing them with marked agitation. He had evidently felt extreme fatigue in consequence, and the doctor spoke with gravity to Mme. Lemaire, declaring that the access of weakness was a very discouraging sign. The old count himself said very little, but towards evening remarked:
“Tell your husband I wish to speak to him to-morrow afternoon.” And when Amélie attempted a remonstrance, he added, peremptorily: “I wish it;” and the doctor, to whom she appealed the next morning, only replied:
“It may, of course, be injurious—all emotion is likely to be injurious—but I cannot take it upon me to prevent Monsieur de Cadanet from giving what are, possibly, important directions. His condition is too critical.”
Charles himself, who had been on thorns, disliked the prospect. If M. de Cadanet was at last dying, he was of opinion that matters had better remain as they were, without further allusions to Léon. André, closely cross-questioned, revealed nothing. His master had read the papers and replaced them, that was all. Certainly no notary had been sent for, and he himself had never once left the room. Charles, always suspicious, had an idea that the man was keeping back something, but as his questions could not find ground for the opinion, there was nothing to say or do. Nor, however much he might have preferred to avoid the coming interview, could he venture to do so, for, weak as he was, M. de Cadanet might no more be safely contradicted now than at any former time. He came accordingly at the hour appointed, and Amélie was waiting in the anteroom.
“He is terribly changed,” she whispered. “The doctor thinks there must be another attack shortly.”
“Does he know what he is about?” her husband asked, eagerly.
“Oh, perfectly. He is asking for you; and you can go in at once, only do be careful.”