I told him that it was not sensible to put himself in such a state merely upon the receipt of a telegram which might mean nothing at all, or might be the result of some delusion. And there, too, I added, that it was not at this time, when we needed all our strength and fortitude, that we ought to give way to imaginary fears which were particularly inexcusable in a lad of his practical temperament.
“Inexcusable! I am glad you think so, Sainclair.”
“But, my dear boy, you frighten me. What is there you know that you have not told me?”
“I am going to tell you. The situation is horrible. Why didn’t that villain die?”
“And, after all, how do you know that he is not dead?”
“Look here, Sainclair—Don’t talk—Be quiet, please—You see, if he is alive, I wish to God that I were dead!”
“You are crazy. It is if he is alive that you have all the more reason to live to defend that poor woman.”
“Ah, that is true! That is true! Thanks, old fellow! You have said the only thing that makes me want to live. To defend her! I will not think of myself any longer—never again.”
And Rouletabille smiled—a smile which almost frightened me. I threw my arm around him and begged him to tell me why he was so terrified, why he spoke of his own death and why he smiled so strangely.
Rouletabille laid his hand on my shoulder, and I went on: