horse saddled and started off at a gallop. I staggered into the
drawing-room without meeting any one except Saint-Jean, who uttered
a cry of terror on seeing me, and rushed off without answering my
questions.

The drawing-room was empty. Edmee's embroidery frame, buried under the
green cloth, which her hand, perchance, would never lift again, seemed
to me like a bier under its pall. My uncle's big arm-chair was no
longer in the chimney-corner. My portrait, which I had had painted in
Philadelphia and had sent over during the American war, had been taken
down from the wall. These were signs of death and malediction.

I left this room with all haste and went upstairs with the courage of
innocence, but with despair in my soul. I waled straight to Edmee's
room, knocked, and entered at once. Mademoiselle Leblanc was coming
towards the door; she gave a loud scream and ran away, hiding her face
in her hands as if she had seen a wild beast. Who, then, could have been
spreading hideous reports about me? Had the abbe been disloyal enough
to do so? I learnt later that Edmee, though generous and unshaken in her
lucid moments, had openly accused me in her delirium.

I approached her bed and, half delirious myself, forgetting that my
sudden appearance might be a deathblow to her, I pulled the curtains
aside with an eager hand and gazed on her. Never have I seen more
marvellous beauty. Her big dark eyes had grown half as large again;
they were shining with an extraordinary brilliancy, though without any
expression, like diamonds. Her drawn, colourless cheeks, and her lips,
as white as her cheeks, gave her the appearance of a beautiful marble
head. She looked at me fixedly, with as little emotion as if she had
been looking at a picture or a piece of furniture; then, turning her