She burst into tears, and, giving him her hand, said: 'You were right!'

Rosalie had darted a look at the visitor charging him as plainly as possible with René's attempted suicide. Her eyes expressed such deep hatred and their meaning was so fully in keeping with Claude's secret remorse that he turned his own eyes away, and asked, after a moment's silence, 'Can I see him?'

'Not to-day,' replied Emilie, 'he is so weak. The doctor fears the least excitement.' She added, 'My uncle will tell you how he is now.'

'When did this happen? I only heard of it from the papers.'

'Has it got into the papers?' said Emilie. 'I tried so hard that it should not.'

'A few lines of no importance,' replied Claude, guessing the truth from Rosalie's sudden change of colour. Old Offarel had a young man under him in the War Office who was connected with the Press, and whom Larcher knew. The sous-chef had no doubt been gossiping, and his daughter had already got to hear of it. Larcher made an attempt to gain fresh favour in Rosalie's eyes by allaying Madame Fresneau's suspicions. 'The reporters ferret out everything,' he said; 'no one who is the least bit known can escape them. But,' he continued, 'what are the details?'

'He came home the day before yesterday about four o'clock, and I saw at once by his face that there was something wrong with him. I had, however, been so accustomed to see him look sad of late that it did not strike me very much. He had told me that he was going to Italy on a long tour. I said to him: "Do you still intend going to-morrow?" "No," he replied, and, taking me in his arms, held me there for some time, whilst he sobbed like a child. I asked him what was the matter. "Nothing," he said; "where is Constant?" His question surprised me. He knew that the boy never comes home from school before six o'clock. "And Fresneau?" he added. Then he drew a deep sigh and went into his room. I stood there for five minutes debating with myself—I thought that perhaps I ought not to leave him alone. At last I began to get frightened—he is so easily led away in his fits of despair. And then I heard the report—I shall hear it all my life!'

She stopped, too agitated to go on, and, after another storm of tears had spent itself, Claude asked, 'What does the doctor say?'

'That he is out of danger, unless some unforeseen complication sets in,' replied Emilie; 'he has explained to us that the trigger of the revolver—it was I who gave it him!—was somewhat hard to pull. The pressure that he brought to bear upon it must have altered the direction of the ball; it passed through the lung without touching the heart, and came out on the other side. At twenty-five! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What a terrible thing! No—he does not love us; he has never loved us!'

Whilst she was thus lamenting and laying bare a heart suffering from those pangs of unrequited affection that mothers know so well the Abbé Taconet appeared on the threshold of the sick-room. He shook hands with Claude, whom he had long since forgiven for having run away from the Ecole Saint-André, and replied to the inquiring looks of his niece and Rosalie: