morning—was so violent and so obvious that my wife, rising from the table and coming to me, said at once:
"What ails you? What is the matter?"
"My father is very ill," I replied, and repeated mechanically, "very ill!"
Juliette, who has a lively imagination and cannot bear to hear of illness, gave a little cry like a frightened bird, while Laurence asked:
"Grandpapa, what is the matter with him?"
"They give me no details," I answered. "It is Aldouve who telegraphs, Aldouve, the gardener. I will go at once."
I had hardly uttered these words when solicitude for my business interests seized me again. I drove it away, trying to persuade myself that my absence was possible, as during the day I had done all that I was able, and could not further influence events taking place at a distance. I consulted the time-table. A train would leave about ten o'clock.
"Do you wish me to go with you?" asked Marguerite. Surprise and compassion were in her kind, faithful eyes; doubtless my emotion astonished her, for we seldom talked of my father.
"No," I replied, "I will first go alone. You will do better to stay here. I will telegraph you if you are needed."
The preparations were hurried through. Do
