The general's wife offered her hand to Mme. Daubrel, without speaking, however, for she felt that sobs would hinder her. She knew the young woman already by what her daughter had said of her at Pampeln, and from the touching letters she had sent to Vera Soublaieff at the time of Alexander's sickness.
"My dear Lise," said Marthe, after returning the pressure of the ex-Countess Barineff's hand, "I bring you good news."
"My children?" asked Mme. Meyrin, with an accent of indescribable tenderness.
"Yes, your children and Prince Olsdorf. He telegraphs that he will be in Paris in less than forty-eight hours, at the same time as your son and daughter. They were to have left Pampeln two days ago."
"Heaven be praised! Where did the prince telegraph from?"
"From Rome."
"From Rome? Rome? Why did he go there? It was not on his way from Brindisi to Paris. Marthe, you are hiding something from me."
Lise had started up in bed, her eyes dilated.
"No, I swear it," replied Mme. Daubrel. "Read for yourself."
The sick woman read rapidly through the telegram which her friend offered her. She sunk back exhausted on the pillows, half dead, and they heard her murmur: