“I will admit Comminges. Stay here and keep him engaged until I slip out.”
With these words he moved forward toward the door, leaving me by Marcilly, the friend whom I had betrayed to his death. I stood there, shame and remorse in my heart, and tongue-tied with my own infamy. I dared not address a word to him, but kept my face averted. I heard the door open softly, and Comminges step into the darkened room. The Prince moved backward into the shadow of the door, as if to let him pass, making a little motion with his hand toward the bed. As the heavy footfall of the lieutenant fell on the floor, and his huge spurs jangled, Marcilly broke out again into his cough, and, turning uneasily on one side, closed his eyes, as if in sleep.
“He is bad,” I whispered to Comminges as he came up to the bed; “much worse than I thought.”
The lieutenant looked at me and then at the figure before him as I continued in the same low tone:
“Monseigneur is touched by your kindness in coming. The cough has exhausted him, but as soon as he recovers he will speak to you.”
“I had better have René sent for,” he began.
“You would be wise, but there is no immediate hurry, and the Prince wishes to thank you in person for coming. He will recover himself in a moment.”
He was about to say something, but I saw that Condé had got out of the room, and, staying Comminges with a gesture of my hand, I pointed to the still figure on the bed.
“He sleeps, I think. Sit here beside him, monsieur,” and I indicated a large easy-chair by the bed. “The slumber is fitful, and he will awake in five minutes.”
Comminges hesitated for a moment, and then accepted my invitation. We waited in silence for a little, listening to the heavy breathing of the sick man. Finally I spoke again in low, subdued tones.