“You must not wait for me, Monsieur.” Then he closed his eyes, and shiver after shiver shook his limbs.
The baby stirred and wailed dismally; in a moment Carola had it caught up and pressed to her heart. The sick man whispered and moaned, then suddenly sat up in violent delirium.
“I will not see any more die!” he cried. “No more, do you hear? These people might have done something—what were they born for? How much farther? No food—no rest. How much farther? How far to Provence?”
The Marquis started; he was himself Provençal, and had not known M. d’Espagnac came from his country; the word stirred agony in the heart he controlled with such difficulty.
“Provence!” repeated the lieutenant. “They will want news of me, you know, Monsieur. I must tell them—the quest of glory——”
Again the words stabbed M. de Vauvenargues. “Georges,” he murmured, bending over him, “perhaps you have attained the quest.”
M. d’Espagnac laughed again.
“What a jest if I should die!” he muttered wildly. “My heart is quite cold, it is freezing my blood. Perhaps I am in my grave, and this is some one else speaking. How far to Eger?—how long to the Judgment Day?”
“I am with you, Georges d’Espagnac,” said the Marquis. “We are alive.”
He seemed to hear that.