“Yes—madam. He is here, but he is not conscious yet. The doctor—”
“I am not madam—I am mademoiselle. I am his sister,” said the girl, quickly descending from the carriage and frankly accepting the assistance of the cure's rather timid hand.
He followed her meekly, wondering at her complete self-possession—at an utter lack of ceremony—at a certain blunt frankness which was new to Yport. She nodded to Madame Senneville.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Monsieur le Cure will show you. It is he who has saved his life.”
The young lady turned and looked into the priest's pink face, which grew pinker. This was not the material of which gallant rescuers are usually made.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Cure,” she said, with a sudden gentleness. “Thank you. It is so difficult—is it not?—to thank any one.”
“There is not the necessity,” murmured the little cure, rather confusedly; and he led the way upstairs.
Once in the sick-room he found his tongue again, and explained matters volubly enough. Besides, she made it easy. She was so marvellously natural, so free from a certain constraint which in some French circles is mistaken for good manners. She asked every detail, and made particular inquiry as to who had seen the patient.
“No one must be allowed to see him,” she said, in her decisive way. “He must be kept quite quiet. No one must approach this room, only you and I, Monsieur le Cure.”