Hiding behind the corner of the château, I ventured a glance. Lerne was standing at the door reading a telegram that moment received, and I came out from my hiding-place.
“Here, uncle,” said I, “here is a pocket-book. It belongs to you, I think. You left it in the car....”
But the rustling of petticoats made me turn round.
Emma was coming to us, radiant in that sunset, in which her hair seemed, every evening, to gain a new wealth of red light—with a tune sounding on her lips, like a rose between her teeth.
She came straight on, and her gait was that of a dance.
The bell had interested her also. She inquired about the telegram. The Professor did not reply.
“Oh, what’s the matter?” said she. “What’s the matter, again, mon Dieu?”
“Is it so grave, uncle?” I asked in my turn.
“No,” replied Lerne. “Donovan is dead, that’s all.”
“Poor fellow,” said Emma. Then after a silence: “Is it not better to be dead than mad? After all it is the best thing for him. Come, Nicolas, you are not going to put on a face like that! Come!”