Three days had passed since Jane Zild had been taken to the elegant house. She still lay motionless and pale, and Madame Caraman never left her bedside.
A slight moan from the invalid caused Mamma Caraman to bend over her.
"Poor child," she sorrowfully murmured, "she looks as if she were going to die. God knows what way she got the wound—I always fear that she herself fired the shot."
Jane moaned louder and felt her heart with her hand.
"Be still, my dear," whispered Mamma Caraman. She poured a few drops of liquor into a cup and told the girl to drink it.
"No, I will not drink!" said Jane, passionately. "Leave me, I do not want to live," she suddenly cried. "Oh, why did you take the weapon from me? I cannot live with this pressure on the breast. The horrible secret pulls me to the ground—I am sinking—I am sinking! Ah, and she was nevertheless my mother—I loved her so—I love her yet."
With tears in her eyes Mamma Caraman tried to quiet the excited girl, but she could not do so. She pressed lightly on a silver bell which stood near the bed.
In less than five minutes the vicomte appeared.
"Is she worse?" he anxiously asked.