"M. le docteur said that if anything was told at the present moment to excite the very old man, it would be his death; if Margot would not promise silence, she must keep out of the room."
"It will soothe him, ma belle grand'mère," cried little Margot.
Nevertheless la Comtesse kept the child from the sick man's room. One hour he grew better, another hour weaker, his strength kept fluctuating; then he began to watch the door.
"It will soon be time for la petite Comtesse to return; I want la petite," he said to his wife.
The distracted woman kept on telling him that she would soon appear; the Comte kept on listening; he fixed his sunken eyes on the clock.
"How soon will the time fly?" he cried impatiently; "how soon will la petite be in these arms?" Poor little Margot was upstairs, struggling with the great despair that had visited her. The dear old man—the dearest old man in all the world except The Desmond—why was she not with him?—how wicked of people to tell lies; she would never tell another. She resolved as soon as she returned to Desmondstown to tell The Desmond also the whole truth.
Toward evening the Comte's temperature went down; it went down to normal—below normal—far below. Madame was thankful, thinking the worst was over.
The old man dropped into a quiet sleep; he looked very aged in that sleep. The doctor came in. Madame exclaimed excitedly:
"Ah, Monsieur le docteur, I have news of the best. His temperature is——"
Then she suddenly stopped speaking—the doctor's face was very grave. He prepared a strong stimulant and forced the old man to swallow it in teaspoonfuls. Then he went into another room with Madame la Comtesse.