“It’s about your son.”
“Gilbert?” she asked, greatly concerned.
“Yes, Gilbert.... Here, read it.”
She gave a yell of dismay. She had read:
“Execution on Tuesday morning.”
And she at once flung herself on Daubrecq, crying:
“It’s not true!... It’s a lie . . . to madden me.... Oh, I know you: you are capable of anything! Confess! It won’t be on Tuesday, will it? In two days! No, no.... I tell you, we have four days yet, five days, in which to save him.... Confess it, confess it!”
She had no strength left, exhausted by this fit of rebellion; and her voice uttered none but inarticulate sounds.
He looked at her for a moment, then poured himself out a glass of champagne and drank it down at a gulp. He took a few steps up and down the room, came back to her and said:
“Listen to me, darling....”