“What ails you?” he said. And she repeated in an undertone:
“Nothing, nothing—I assure you, nothing.”
Roland had gone to fetch some vinegar; he now returned, and handing the bottle to his son he said:
“Here—do something to ease her. Have you felt her heart?”
As Pierre bent over her to feel her pulse she pulled away her hand so vehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by.
“Come,” said he in icy tones, “let me see what I can do for you, as you are ill.”
Then she raised her arm and held it out to him. Her skin was burning, the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps.
“You are certainly ill,” he murmured. “You must take something to quiet you. I will write you a prescription.” And as he wrote, stooping over the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick breathing and suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her. She was weeping, her hands covering her face.
Roland, quite distracted, asked her:
“Louise, Louise, what is the mater with you? What on earth ails you?”