Dear Sir,—Your letter to Miss Geraldine Vicary was,
according to instructions, forwarded to me. I regret to
inform you that my poor sister died three weeks ago, of
diphtheria. She caught the disease whilst nursing the lady
concerning whom, I believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had
been living with her for the past two years. Shortly after
my poor sister’s death, Madame Latour was removed to St.
Mary’s Hospital, where, as far as I know, she still lies
very ill.
Trusting this sad information may be of service to you,
I am yours faithfully,
Henrietta Dasent.
Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted his breakfast, and rushed out into the street, with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and uncared for, dying in a London hospital—it was incredible. The apparent heartlessness of the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of all interest in her dead sister’s dying friend, made his blood boil. A London hospital—an open common ward, with medical students chattering round—it was a cruel place for the sweet delicate woman he remembered as Yvonne. Where were all her friends?
In the dismay, excitement, and indignation of the moment, he forgot his poverty, and jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw.
“St. Mary’s Hospital, quick!”
And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life and death, went at a breakneck pace.
CHAPTER XVI—LA CIGALE
Seeing Yvonne at that time of the morning was out of the question. But he penetrated to the landing outside the ward and had a few words with the sister in charge. She was a fresh, pleasant-faced woman, who, having fallen in love with Yvonne, felt kindly disposed toward her friends.
Madame Latour was slowly recovering. One of the most lingering of the sequelae of diphtheria, diphtheritic paralysis, had set in. It was her larynx and left arm that were affected. At present she was suffering from general weakness. It would be some time yet before she could be moved.