"Jean!" she whispered—and because they were stronger than she, and because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood, and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her own two arms.
She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder.
"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We shall win, I promise you."
She grew quieter after a little while—and again she tried to think. They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and—and that was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and—and so it was true. And what then? What—if Mademoiselle Bliss found her here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was! What would she do—what would she do? She did not want to go, it seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand, and—she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice, mumbling, wandering, reached her.
"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, mon brave, and I will lift you up, and—" The words grew thick upon his tongue, lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again, and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a beacon—and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... sacré nom, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell you ... how—not another, when—"
"Tiens!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is regaining consciousness now, and—heh!—but what is the matter, mademoiselle?"
With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering significance—and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words. What had the doctor said—that Jean was returning to consciousness! It brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not. Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to consider now—it was Jean. He must not see her—he must not even know that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her—he must not know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the bed to the doctor's side.
"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must not know—he must not know that I—that—that any one has been here. Monsieur, will—will you promise that?"
"But, mademoiselle!"—he looked at her in amazement. "But, mademoiselle, I—"
She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees.