THE AMERICAN
had, however faint, the flicker of his gaiety, and he seemed almost to say what he wanted. It was visible, however, that he was in extreme pain, and at last he again closed his eyes. Newman begged him to make no effort—just, as he called it, to take his ease; the doctor had left urgent orders against worry. "Oh," returned Valentin, let us eat and drink, for to-morrow—to-morrow—!" And he paused again. "No, not to-morrow, perhaps, but to-day. I can't eat and drink, but I can talk. What's to be gained, at this pass, by renun—renunciation? I must n't use such big words. I was always a chatterer; Lord, how I've bavardé in my day!"
"That's a reason for keeping quiet now," said Newman. "We know how beautifully you talk—it's all right about that."
But Valentin, without heeding him, went on with the same effect of trouble and of pluck. "I wanted to see you because you've seen my sister. Does she know—will she come?"
Newman felt himself the poorest of deceivers. "Yes, by this time she must know."
"Did n't you tell her?" Valentin asked. And then, in a moment: "Did n't you bring me any message from her?" His eyes now covered his friend like lifted lamps.
"I did n't see her after I got your telegram. I wrote to her."
"And she sent you no answer?"
Newman managed to reply that Madame de Cintré had left Paris. "She went yesterday to Fleurières."
"Yesterday—to Fleurières? Why did she go to
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