he old man made
no further inquiries, for in his opinion such affairs did not concern a
third person.

Mme. Roland affected not to hear; she seemed ill and was very pale.
Several times already her husband, surprised to see her sit down as if
she were dropping into her chair, and to hear her gasp as if she could
not draw her breath, had said:

"Really, Louise, you look very ill; you tire yourself too much with
helping Jean. Give yourself a little rest. Sacristi! The rascal is in no
hurry, as he is a rich man."

She shook her head without a word.

But to-day her pallor was so great that Roland remarked on it again.

"Come, come," said he, "this will not do at all, my dear old woman. You
must take care of yourself." Then, addressing his son, "You surely must
see that your mother is ill. Have you questioned her, at any rate?"

Pierre replied: "No; I had not noticed that there was anything the
matter with her."

At this Roland was angry.

"But it stares you in the face, confound you! What on earth is the good
of your being a doctor if you cannot even see that your mother is out of
sorts? Why, look at her, just look at her. Really, a man might die under
his very eyes and this doctor would never think there was anything the
matter!"

Mme. Roland was panting for breath, and so white that her husband
exclaimed:

"She is going to faint."

"No, no, it is nothing--I shall get better directly--it is nothing."

Pierre had gone up to her and was looking at her steadily.

"What ails you?" he said. And she repeated in an undertone:

"Nothing, nothing--I assure you, nothing."

Roland had gone to fetch some vinegar; he now returned, and handing the
bottle to his son he said:

"Here--do something to ease her. Have you felt her heart?"

As Pierre bent over her to feel her pulse she pulled away her hand so
vehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by.

"Come," said he in icy tones, "let me see what I can do for you, as you
are ill."

Then she raised her arm and held it out to him. Her skin was burning,
the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps.

"You are certainly ill," he murmured. "You must take something to quiet
you. I will write you a prescription." And as he wrote, stooping over
the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick breathing and
suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her. She was weeping,
her hands covering her face.

Roland, quite distracted, asked her: