“But Louis—”
“Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!”
He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed as he seized Claire’s hands.
“No, no,” she cried. “No, no; she is quite well.”
“Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now.”
“No, no, you cannot. It is impossible,” cried Claire.
“Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are killing me.”
“She—she—my poor sister—she thought—she heard—she had news, Louis—that you were dead.”
“Dead?—I?—dead? Oh, my poor little flower!” he cried, with a ring of tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the instant. “But who told her? Who sent her those lies?”
“I don’t know—I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis—because you were dead.”