It was a sad scene and one that I was not prepared to meet. I had
assured myself that Madame de Beaumont's letter was exaggerated, and
now it seemed not to have conveyed to me half vividly enough the
actual state of the unfortunate circumstances.
We had some slight refreshment served on the little table before us,
but neither of us could partake of it heartily. I swallowed some
mouthfuls of food more out of duty than anything else, and indulged
myself with a cup of strong tea, my favorite beverage, after which we
repaired quietly to the sick-room to have a look at Hortense before
retiring.
Faint glimmers of light, leaping from the night lamp that burned dimly
on a table by the bedside, danced in flickering shadows every now and
then upon her pallid cheeks, but still she slept quietly and
peacefully. One would think it was the sleep that knows no earthly
waking were it not for the warm look of her paleness, and the feeble
throbbing of something in her thin white neck.
"She will spend the whole night like this," her mother whispered,
drawing me away. "The nurse watches her steadily and Bayard occupies
the next room, but they are never disturbed. She dozes quietly the
whole night long. To-morrow she will know you and talk to you. You
must go to your room now, my dear, for you are tired and travel-worn.
Come, I will show you the way," she added, putting her arm around my
waist and leading me out of the room.
When we reached the door we were met by the timid hero of the
sitting-room, who now found himself almost in our arms.
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