I knew by the light that it was evening when I awoke. So prisoners mark the passing of the days by a bar of sun light. And as I looked at the green trees in the courtyard, vaguely troubled by I knew not what, some one came and stood in the doorway. It was Nick.
“You don't seem very cheerful,” said he; “a man ought to be who has been snatched out of the fire.”
“You seem to be rather too sure of my future,” I said, trying to smile.
“That's more like you,” said Nick. “Egad, you ought to be happy—we all ought to be happy—she's gone.”
“She!” I cried. “Who's gone?”
“Madame la Vicomtesse,” he replied, rubbing his hands as he stood over me. “But she's left instructions with me for Lindy as long as Monsieur de Carondelet's Bando de Buen Gobierno. You are not to do this, and you are not to do that, you are to eat such and such things, you are to be made to sleep at such and such times. She came in here about an hour ago and took a long look at you before she left.”
“She was not ill?” I said faintly.
“Faith, I don't know why she was not,” he said. “She has done enough to tire out an army. But she seems well and fairly happy. She had her joke at my expense as she went through the court-yard, and she reminded me that we were to send a report by André every day.”
Chagrin, depression, relief, bewilderment, all were struggling within me.