“Enough, enough!” said the doctor, interrupting me; “do not be uneasy. Let me look at your scratches.”
The good doctor became silent, and proceeded to the dressing of my wounds.
Under other circumstances the manipulation of my wounds, for they now felt painful, might have caused me annoyance. It did not then. What I had just heard had produced a feeling within that neutralised the external pain, and I felt it not.
I was really in mental agony.
I burned with impatience to question Reigart about the affairs of the plantation,—about Eugénie and Aurore. I could not,—we were not alone. The landlord of the hotel and a negro attendant had entered the room, and were assisting the doctor in his operations. I could not trust myself to speak on such a subject in their presence. I was forced to nurse my impatience until all was over, and both landlord and servant had left us.
“Now, doctor, this news of Mademoiselle Besançon?”
“Do you not know all?”
“Only what I have heard this moment from those gossips outside the room.”
I detailed to Reigart the remarks that had been made.
“Really I thought you must have been acquainted with the whole matter. I had fancied that to be the cause of your long absence to-day; though I did not even conjecture how you might be engaged in the matter.”