“I saw your son to-day,” he said:  “he complains that you neglect him, and have not seen him for twelve days.  He does not know you have been ill, nor did I tell him.  The dear boy! he loves you so tenderly.”

“And I also long to see him.  My friend, I cannot tell you what terrible presentiments beset me; it seems as if I were threatened with some great misfortune; and just now, when you came in, I could think only of death.  What is the cause of this languor and weakness?  It is surely no temporary ailment.  Tell me the truth:  am I not dreadfully altered? and do you not think my husband will be shocked when he sees me like this?”

“You are unnecessarily anxious,” replied Derues; “it is rather a failing of yours.  Did I not see you last year tormenting yourself about Edouard’s health, when he was not even thinking of being ill?  I am not so soon alarmed.  My own old profession, and that of chemistry, which I studied in my youth, have given me some acquaintance with medicine.  I have frequently been consulted, and have prescribed for patients whose condition was supposed to be desperate, and I can assure you I have never seen a better and stronger constitution than yours.  Try to calm yourself, and do not call up chimeras; because a mind at ease is the greatest enemy of illness.  This depression will pass, and then you will regain your strength.”

“May God grant it! for I feel weaker every day.”

“We have still some business to transact together.  The notary at Beauvais writes that the difficulties which prevented his paying over the inheritance of my wife’s relation, Monsieur Duplessis, have mostly disappeared.  I have a hundred thousand livres at my disposal,—­that is to say, at yours,—­and in a month at latest I shall be able to pay off my debt.  You ask me to be sincere,” he continued, with a tinge of reproachful irony; “be sincere in your turn, madame, and acknowledge that you and your husband have both felt uneasy, and that the delays I have been obliged to ask for have not seemed very encouraging to you?”

“It is true,” she replied; “but we never questioned your good faith.”

“And you were right.  One is not always able to carry out one’s intentions; events can always upset our calculations; but what really is in our power is the desire to do right—­to be honest; and I can say that I never intentionally wronged anyone.  And now.  I am happy in being able to fulfil my promises to you.  I trust when I am the owner of Buisson-Souef you will not feel obliged to leave it.”

“Thank you; I should like to come occasionally, for all my happy recollections are connected with it.  Is it necessary for me to accompany you to Beauvais?”

“Why should you not?  The change would do you good.”

She looked up at him and smiled sadly.  “I am not in a fit state to undertake it.”

“Not if you imagine that you are unable, certainly.  Come, have you any confidence in me?”