went to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in the
same gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in the
brain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to God
and could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time he
returned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and then
started off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing and
reappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations of
forces which man cannot control. Possibly he was mistaken, possibly this
was some mere indisposition at which the doctor would smile. One must
hope and wait. And again he went off and again he came back; and amidst
the heavy silence nothing more clearly bespoke the torture of anxious
fear than the rhythmical footsteps of that tall old man who was thus
awaiting Destiny.

The door opened, and Victorine came in breathless. "I found the doctor,
here he is," she gasped.

With his little pink face and white curls, his discreet paternal bearing
which gave him the air of an amiable prelate, Doctor Giordano came in
smiling; but on seeing that room and all the anxious people waiting in
it, he turned very grave, at once assuming the expression of profound
respect for all ecclesiastical secrets which he had acquired by long
practice among the clergy. And when he had glanced at the sufferer he let
but a low murmur escape him: "What, again! Is it beginning again!"

He was probably alluding to the knife thrust for which he had recently
tended Dario. Who could be thus relentlessly pursuing that poor and
inoffensive young prince? However no one heard the doctor unless it were
Benedetta, and she was so full of feverish impatience, so eager to be
tranquillised, that she did not listen but burst into fresh entreaties: