"Monsieur Artois dangerously ill; fear may not recover; he wished you to know.
Max Berton, Docteur Médecin, Kairouan."
Hermione dropped the telegram. She did not feel at all surprised. Indeed, she felt that she had been expecting almost these very words, telling her of a tragedy at which the letter she still held in her hand had hinted. For a moment she stood there without being conscious of any special sensation. Then she stooped, picked up the telegram, and read it again. This time it seemed like an answer to that unuttered prayer in her heart: "Give me an opportunity to show my gratitude." She did not hesitate for a moment as to what she would do. She would go to Kairouan, to close the eyes of her friend if he must die, if not to nurse him back to life.
Antonino was munching some bread and cheese and had one hand round a glass full of red wine.
"I'm going to write an answer," she said to him, "and you must run with it."
"Si, signora."
"Was it from Africa, signora?" asked Lucrezia.
"Yes."
Lucrezia's jaw fell, and she stared in superstitious amazement.
"I wonder," Hermione thought, "if Maurice—"
She went gently to the bedroom. He was still sleeping calmly. His attitude of luxurious repose, the sound of his quiet breathing, seemed strange to her eyes and ears at this moment, strange and almost horrible. For an instant she thought of waking him in order to tell him her news and consult with him about the journey. It never occurred to her to ask him whether there should be a journey. But something held her back, as one is held back from disturbing the slumber of a tired child, and she returned to the sitting-room, wrote out the following telegram: