“She was not ill?” I said faintly.

“Faith, I don’t know why she was not,” he said.  “She has done enough to tire out an army.  But she seems well and fairly happy.  She had her joke at my expense as she went through the court-yard, and she reminded me that we were to send a report by Andre every day.”

Chagrin, depression, relief, bewilderment, all were struggling within me.

“Where did she go?” I asked at last.

“To Les Iles,” he said.  “You are to be brought there as soon as you are strong enough.”

“Do you happen to know why she went?” I said.

“Now how the deuce should I know?” he answered.  “I’ve done everything with blind servility since I came into this house.  I never asked for any reason—­it never would have done any good.  I suppose she thought that you were well on the road to recovery, and she knew that Lindy was an old hand.  And then the doctor is to come in.”

“Why didn’t you go?” I demanded, with a sudden remembrance that he was staying away from happiness.

“It was because I longed for another taste of liberty, Davy,” he laughed.  “You and I will have an old-fashioned time here together,—­a deal of talk, and perhaps a little piquet,—­who knows?”

My strength came back, bit by bit, and listening to his happiness did much to ease the soreness of my heart—­while the light lasted.  It was in the night watches that my struggles came—­though often some unwitting speech of his would bring back the pain.  He took delight in telling me, for example, how for hours at a time I had been in a fearful delirium.

“The Lord knows what foolishness you talked, Davy,” said he.  “It would have done me good to hear you had you been in your right mind.”

“But you did hear me,” I said, full of apprehensions.

“Some of it,” said he.  “You were after Wilkinson once, in a burrow, I believe, and you swore dreadfully because he got out of the other end.  I can’t remember all the things you said.  Oh, yes, once you were talking to Auguste de St. Gre about money.”

“Money?” I repeated in a sinking voice.

“Oh, a lot of jargon.”  The Vicomtesse pushed me out of the room, and after that I was never allowed to be there when you had those flights.  Curse the mosquitoes!  He seized a fan and began to ply it vigorously.  “I remember.  You were giving Auguste a lecture.  Then I had to go.”

These and other reminiscences gave me sufficient food for reflection, and many a shudder over the possibilities of my ravings.  She had put him out!  No wonder.

After a while I was carried to the gallery, and there I would talk to the little doctor about the yellow fever which had swept the city.  Monsieur Perrin was not much of a doctor, to be sure, and he had a heartier dread of the American invasion than of the scourge.  He worshipped the Vicomtesse, and was so devoid of professional pride as to give her freely all credit for my recovery.  He too, clothed her with the qualities of statesmanship.