“My dear fellow, how can I try?  Trying is violent exercise, and that sort of thing isn’t in order for a man with a hole in his side as big as your hat, that begins to bleed if he moves a hair’s-breadth.  I knew you would come,” he continued; “I knew I should wake up and find you here; so I’m not surprised.  But last night I was very impatient.  I didn’t see how I could keep still until you came.  It was a matter of keeping still, just like this; as still as a mummy in his case.  You talk about trying; I tried that!  Well, here I am yet—­these twenty hours.  It seems like twenty days.”  Bellegarde talked slowly and feebly, but distinctly enough.  It was visible, however, that he was in extreme pain, and at last he closed his eyes.  Newman begged him to remain silent and spare himself; the doctor had left urgent orders.  “Oh,” said Valentin, “let us eat and drink, for to-morrow—­to-morrow”—­and he paused again.  “No, not to-morrow, perhaps, but today.  I can’t eat and drink, but I can talk.  What’s to be gained, at this pass, by renun—­renunciation?  I mustn’t use such big words.  I was always a chatterer; Lord, how I have talked in my day!”

“That’s a reason for keeping quiet now,” said Newman.  “We know how well you talk, you know.”

But Valentin, without heeding him, went on in the same weak, dying drawl.  “I wanted to see you because you have seen my sister.  Does she know—­will she come?”

Newman was embarrassed.  “Yes, by this time she must know.”

“Didn’t you tell her?” Valentin asked.  And then, in a moment, “Didn’t you bring me any message from her?” His eyes rested upon Newman’s with a certain soft keenness.

“I didn’t see her after I got your telegram,” said Newman.  “I wrote to her.”

“And she sent you no answer?”

Newman was obliged to reply that Madame de Cintre had left Paris.  “She went yesterday to Fleurieres.”

“Yesterday—­to Fleurieres?  Why did she go to Fleurieres?  What day is this?  What day was yesterday?  Ah, then I shan’t see her,” said Valentin, sadly.  “Fleurieres is too far!” And then he closed his eyes again.  Newman sat silent, summoning pious invention to his aid, but he was relieved at finding that Valentin was apparently too weak to reason or to be curious.  Bellegarde, however, presently went on.  “And my mother—­and my brother—­will they come?  Are they at Fleurieres?”

“They were in Paris, but I didn’t see them, either,” Newman answered.  “If they received your telegram in time, they will have started this morning.  Otherwise they will be obliged to wait for the night-express, and they will arrive at the same hour as I did.”