He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one arm on the
coverlet. Then the young woman noticed his wild expression, the blood
reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver.
"What's the matter then?" she asked. "You're ill too."
"No," he answered with extreme difficulty.
She gazed at him with a profound expression. Then she signed to Zoe
to retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine
bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again
asked:
"What's the matter with you, darling? The tears are ready to burst from
your eyes--I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you've come
to tell me something."
"No, no, I swear I haven't," he blurted out. But he was choking with
suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered
unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and buried
his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief. Nana
understood. Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the letter.
She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by convulsions so
fierce that the bed trembled under her. At length in accents of motherly
compassion she queried:
"You've had bothers at your home?"
He nodded affirmatively.
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