I recognised the stalwart frame of Michelot, and at last I asked myself where I might be. It did not seem to occur to me that I had but to call him to receive an answer to that question. Instead, I closed my eyes again, and essayed to think. But just then there came a gentle scratching at the door, and I could hear Michelot tiptoeing across the room; next he and the one he had admitted tiptoed back towards my bedside, and as they came I caught a whisper in a voice that seemed to drag me to full consciousness.
“How fares the poor invalid this morning?”
“The fever is gone, Mademoiselle, and he may wake at any moment; indeed, it is strange that he should sleep so long.”
“He will be the better for it when he does awaken. I will remain here while you rest, Michelot. My poor fellow, you are almost as worn with your vigils as he is with the fever.”
“Pooh! I am strong enough, Mademoiselle,” he answered. “I will get a mouthful of food and return, for I would be by when he wakes.”
Then their voices sank so low that as they withdrew I caught not what was said. The door closed softly and for a space there was silence, broken at last by a sigh above my head. With an answering sigh I opened wide my eyes and feasted them upon the lovely face of Yvonne de Canaples, as she bent over me with a look of tenderness and pity that at once recalled to me our parting when I was arrested.
But suddenly meeting the stare of my gaze, she drew back with a half-stifled cry, whose meaning my dull wits sought not to interpret, but methought I caught from her lips the words, “Thank God!”
“Where am I, Mademoiselle?” I inquired, and the faintness of my voice amazed me.
“You know me!” she exclaimed, as though the thing were a miracle. Then coming forward again, and setting her cool, sweet hand upon my forehead,
“Hush,” she murmured in the accents one might use to soothe a child. “You are at Canaples, among friends. Now sleep.”