One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion’s door, and simply said to him: “Come—the Seigneur!”
Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the Seigneur’s chair, while the Little Chemist watched and sighed softly in a corner, now and again rising to feel the sick man’s pulse or to prepare a cordial. The housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and when the Seigneur dropped his handkerchief—now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of a past century—she put it gently in his hand.
Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on him with inquiry, and he said: “Soon?”
It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. “Eight hours, perhaps, sir,” the Little Chemist answered, with painful shyness.
The Seigneur seemed to draw himself up a little, and his hand grasped his handkerchief tightly for an instant; then he said: “Soon. Thank you.”
After a little, his eyes turned to Medallion and he seemed about to speak, but still kept silent. His chin dropped on his breast, and for a time he was motionless and shrunken; but still there was a strange little curl of pride—or disdain—on his lips. At last he drew up his head, his shoulders came erect, heavily, to the carved back of the chair, where, strange to say, the Stations of the Cross were figured, and he said, in a cold, ironical voice: “The Angel of Patience has lied!”
The evening wore on, and there was no sound, save the ticking of the clock, the beat of rain upon the windows, and the deep breathing of the Seigneur. Presently he started, his eyes opened wide, and his whole body seemed to listen.
“I heard a voice,” he said.
“No one spoke, my master,” said the housekeeper.
“It was a voice without,” he said.