“I know what the malady is,” he continued, raising his eyes to heaven; “it is one that has to be concealed rather than acknowledged.  Poor youth! whom I love as my own son, if God, touched by my tears and thy suffering, permits me to save thee, thy whole life will be too short for thy blessings and thy gratitude!” And as Madame Martin asked what this malady might be, he answered with hypocritical blushes—­

“Do not ask, madame; there are things of which you do not know even the name.”

At another time, Martin expressed his surprise that the young man’s mother had not yet appeared, who, according to Derues, was to have met him at Versailles.  He asked how she could know that they were lodging in his house, and if he should send to meet her at any place where she was likely to arrive.

“His mother,” said Derues, looking compassionately at Edouard, who lay pale, motionless, and as if insensible,—­“his mother!  He calls for her incessantly.  Ah! monsieur, some families are greatly to be pitied!  My entreaties prevailed on her to decide on coming hither, but will she keep her promise?  Do not ask me to tell you more; it is too painful to have to accuse a mother of having forgotten her duties in the presence of her son . . . there are secrets which ought not to be told—­unhappy woman!”

Edouard moved, extended his arms, and repeated, “Mother! . . . mother!”

Derues hastened to his side and took his hands in his, as if to warm them.

“My mother!” the youth repeated.  “Why have I not seen her?  She was to have met me.”

You shall soon see her, dear boy; only keep quiet.”

“But just now I thought she was dead.”

“Dead!” cried Derues.  “Drive away these sad thoughts.  They are caused by the fever only.”

“No! oh no! . . .  I heard a secret voice which said, ’Thy mother is dead!’ . . .  And then I beheld a livid corpse before me . . .  It was she! . . .  I knew her well! and she seemed to have suffered so much——­”

“Dear boy, your mother is not dead . . . .  My God! what terrible chimeras you conjure up!  You will see her again, I assure you; she has arrived already.  Is it not so, madame?” he asked, turning towards the Martins, who were both leaning against the foot of the bed, and signing to them to support this pious falsehood, in order to calm the young man.  “Did she not arrive and come to his bedside and kiss him while he slept, and she will soon come again?”

“Yes, yes,” said Madame Martin, wiping her eyes; “and she begged my husband and me to help your uncle to take great care of you—­”

The youth moved again, and looking round him with a dazed expression, said, “My uncle—?”

“You had better go,” said Derues in a whisper to the Martins.  “I am afraid he is delirious again; I will prepare a draught, which will give him a little rest and sleep.”

“Adieu, then, adieu,” answered Madame Martin; “and may Heaven bless you for the care you bestow on this poor young man!”