Their conversation at this point was interrupted by a low knock at the door, and almost immediately the girl of whom they had been talking appeared before them. She stopped and leaned against the wall. The doctor sprang toward her.
“Poor child!” he exclaimed. “While we were idly talking, she was faint from exhaustion and fatigue.”
She had, in truth, fallen into a chair against the wall, and seemed losing consciousness. Mademoiselle Josephine hastened to support her head, and bathe her pale brow and colorless cheeks with cold water. Every movement of the doctor’s elderly sister had become prompt and decided. At a sign from her brother, she disappeared an instant, but returned almost immediately with a vial and a glass of water in her hand.
“That is it,” said the doctor. He let fall a few drops into the glass, which he then held to the young girl’s lips. Two or three swallows seemed to revive her.
“Excuse me,” she said, raising her head, and forcing herself to rise. “Excuse me, both of you. I did not think myself so weak, and did not intend to give you so much trouble when I came to see you.”
“Do not talk now, but drink the remainder of this.”
Fleurange put the glass to her lips, but returned it to the doctor without tasting it. “I cannot,” she said, “I feel dizzy. I do not know what ails me—perhaps it is the surprise I have just had. Here, monsieur, read this. It was to show you this letter I came down.”
The doctor took the letter, but, before reading it, led Fleurange to the fire, while the active Josephine, divining her brother’s wishes, placed on the table a bowl of soup and some bread and wine.
Fleurange took Mademoiselle Josephine’s hand between her own: “Thank you,” she said in a low tone. “Yes, I think it was that: I am generally strong, but—but—”
“I dare say you have not eaten anything since yesterday?”