"What—to-day!" Maurice said, quickly.
"Oh no. Emile is here to-day."
Then Artois did not mean to go till late. But he—Maurice—must go down to the sea before nightfall.
"Unless I bathe," he said, trying to speak naturally—"unless I bathe I feel the heat too much at night. A dip in the sea does wonders for me."
"And in such a sea!" said Artois. "You must have your dip to-day. I shall go directly that little wind you speak of comes. I told a boy to come up from the village at four to lead the donkey down."
He smiled deprecatingly.
"Dreadful to be such a weakling, isn't it?" he said.
"Hush. Don't talk, like that. It's all going away. Strength is coming. You'll soon be your old self. But you've got to look forward all the time."
Hermione spoke with a warmth, an energy that braced. She spoke to Artois, but Maurice, eager to grasp at any comfort, strove to take the words to himself. This evening the climax of his Sicilian tragedy must come. And then? Beyond, might there not be the calm, the happiness of a sane life? He must look forward, he would look forward.
But when he looked, there stood Maddalena weeping.