His eyes roamed round the room; then, not seeing her, he continued:
"Where? I must see her--once."
"Once?"
"For the last time. After that we shall never meet again. The shadow of my life, my past, must fall on her no more. Yet--once--I must see her. Lead me to where she is."
"She has been ill, delirious--is crushed by all that has happened--by----"
"All that she has learnt," he interrupted, his voice deep and solemn--broken, too. "Yet I must see her."
"She is asleep above."
For answer to this he made simply a sign, yet one I understood very well--a sign that I should delay no longer.
"Come," I said, "come." And together we went up the narrow stairs to the room she occupied--stole up them, as though in fear of waking her.
Pushing the door open gently, we saw by the rays of the veilleuse, which I had ordered to be placed in the room, that she was sleeping; observed also that our entry did not disturb her; also it was easy to perceive that she was dreaming. Sometimes, as we standing there gazed down, the long, dark lashes that drooped upon her cheeks quivered; from beneath them there stole some tears; once, too, the rosy lips parted, and a sigh came from between them.