“That is no reason why you should kill yourself,” said Madame, coldly. “Will you not do as I say?”
“I think that I should go to Mrs. Temple's,” I answered.
She did not reply to that, letting down her veil impatiently, with a deftness that characterized all her movements. Without so much as asking me to come after her, she reached the banquette, and I walked by her side through the streets, silent and troubled by her displeasure. My pride forbade me to do as she wished. It was the hottest part of a burning day, and the dome of the sky was like a brazen bell above us. We passed the the calabozo with its iron gates and tiny grilled windows pierced in the massive walls, behind which Gignoux languished, and I could not repress a smile as I thought of him. Even the Spaniards sometimes happened upon justice. In the Rue Bourbon the little shops were empty, the doorstep where my merry fiddler had played vacant, and the very air seemed to simmer above the honeycombed tiles. I knocked at the door, once, twice. There was no answer. I looked at Madame la Vicomtesse, and knocked again so loudly that the little tailor across the street, his shirt opened at the neck, flung out his shutter. Suddenly there was a noise within, the door was opened, and Lindy stood before us, in the darkened room, with terror in her eyes.
“Oh, Marse Dave,” she cried, as we entered, “oh, Madame, I'se so glad you'se come, I'se so glad you'se come.”
She burst into a flood of tears. And Madame la Vicomtesse, raising her veil, seized the girl by the arm.
“What is it?” she said. “What is the matter, Lindy?”
Madame's touch seemed to steady her.
“Miss Sally,” she moaned, “Miss Sally done got de yaller fever.”
There was a moment's silence, for we were both too appalled by the news to speak.
“Lindy, are you sure?” said the Vicomtesse.