"Chut, child! Do you think—"
"Ah! She has not come—she does not come—she does not come! I shall go mad. I shall shoot myself if she does not return! Mon Dieu!—Mon Dieu!"
"Claude, be calm. There is time. She could not yet have got away. Be calm. She will come, of course."
Henri spoke soothingly, but, as the minutes passed, and still Deborah delayed, his heart sank. What to do with his cousin? Claude would, in a little time, be actually unbalanced, he feared.
"Henri, the château might be repaired. I should like to live in it again. I should like to be buried there. Ah, if she is not here in ten minutes, I shall use my pistol. Then I will be buried there, in the vault, beside Alexandre. Poor Alexandre! You remember—he never knew her. He knew what it meant to lose his—Deborah!—Deborah!—Deborah! Mon Dieu, Henri, I have been brutal to her. She will not come back. The time is come—the time is come—I will put an end to myself!"
Claude made a quick dash for the table, on which, amid a pile of varied articles, were his duelling pistols. He picked one of them up. Henri sprang from his place and seized his cousin round the shoulders.
"Idiot!—Put it down!—Stop!"
Claude was struggling to free himself from the grasp. The strength of a madman seemed to be in his arms. Henri felt his hold weakening. He was being repulsed.
"Armand!" shouted the Marquis hoarsely. "Armand! A moi! Au secours! Monsieur le Comte—"
"Mordi! you shall not!" growled Claude, furiously. "I tell you she is not coming! I will kill myself! Let me—let me go!"