“Ah!” said he, “she will die; I know it.”

There was such intense anguish in his tone that even the practised woman of the world was softened.

“I assure you, sir,” said she, “that you go too far; there is no present danger; the doctors say it is catalepsy, which often attacks persons of a nervous temperament upon the receipt of a sudden mental shock.”

“But what shock has she received?” asked Andre.

“No one told me,” answered she after a short pause, “that Sabine’s illness was caused by the breaking off of her engagement; but, of course, I supposed that it was.”

“That was not the reason, Clotilde; but you have told us nothing; pray, go on,” interposed De Breulh.

The extreme calmness of her cousin, and a glance which she observed passing between him and Andre, enlightened the Viscountess somewhat.

“I asked as much as I dared,” she replied, “but I could only get the vaguest answers.  Sabine looked as if she were dead, and her father and mother hovered around her couch like two spectres.  Had they slain her with their own hands, they could not have looked more guilty; their faces frightened me.”

“Tell me precisely what answers were given to your questions,” broke in he impatiently.

“Sabine had seemed so agitated all day, that her mother asked her if she was suffering any pain.”

“We know that already.”

“Indeed!” replied the Viscountess, with a look of surprise.  “It seems, cousin, that you saw Sabine that afternoon, but what became of her afterward no one appears to know; but there is positive proof that she did not leave the house, and received no letters.  At all events, it was more than an hour after her maid saw her enter her own room.  Sabine said a few unintelligible words to the girl, who, seeing the pallor upon her mistress’s face, ran up to her.  Just as she did so, Sabine uttered a wild shriek, and fell to the ground.  She was raised up and laid upon the bed, but since then she has neither moved nor spoken.”

“That is not all,” said De Breulh, who had watched his cousin keenly.

The Viscountess started, and avoided meeting her cousin’s eye.

“I do not understand,” she faltered.  “Why do you look at me like that?”

De Breulh, who had been pacing up and down the room, suddenly halted in front of the Viscountess.

“My dear Clotilde,” said he, “I am sure when I tell you that the tongue of scandal has often been busy with your name, I am telling you nothing new.”

“Pooh!” answered the Viscountess.  “What do I care for that?”

“But I always defended you.  You are indiscreet—­your presence here tonight shows this; but you are, after all, a true woman,—­brave and true as steel.”

“What do you mean by this exordium, Gontran?”

“This, Clotilde,—­I want to know if I dare venture to intrust to you a secret which involves the honor of two persons, and, perhaps, the lives of more.”