Eugene stretched out his hand in a forbidding way, but did not reply to him.
“Thou art having a spasm,” said the priest. “I am sure of it. Let me seek a doctor. Oh! what is the matter with thee?”
“It is that woman,” gasped Eugene. “Oh! I cannot endure it.”
“A woman!” repeated the priest, inspecting the narrow dimensions of their room in great amazement; “there is no woman here.”
“It is that woman yonder, monsieur le curé,” said Eugene respectfully, and yet with restrained anger; “there is but one woman that I consider—the one who has been so peerless for me. Oh! I wish to see her. I wish to see her;” and he flung himself about his berth in a paroxysm of regret and passion.
“Poor little one,” said the priest, “hast thou been suffering all through the long night?”
“I have not slept,” said Eugene miserably. “I have sat up and thought of many things. I wish to go back. I cannot endure this.”
“I will be a mother to thee,” said the priest soothingly; “and thou canst write to that good woman.”
“She will not care for letters,” exclaimed Eugene. “She wishes me, and I wish her. When I lie down at night she wishes me happy dreams. I did not know that I cared for it until last night when she was not here. I must go back to her. I shall go back;” and he surveyed his companion in open defiance.