Le Monsieur De La Petite Dame | Page 7

made his reply.
"It is impossible for me to explain, Madame."

"She is absolutely attenuated," cried Madame» "She is like a spirit.
Take her to the country--to Normandy--to the sea--somewhere! She
will die if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as a
young capon."
A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a
lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to
spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk--about people,
about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly.
"And Arthur says"--she began.
Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done.
"Arthur!" she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a little
embarrassed.
"I mean M. Villefort," she said, hesitantly.
She quite forgot what she had been going to say, and for a moment or
so regarded the fire quite gravely. But naturally this could not last long.
She soon began to talk again, and it was not many minutes before she
found M. Villefort in her path once more.
"I never thought I could like a Frenchman so much," she said, in all
enthusiastic good faith. "At first, you know," with an apologetic half
laugh, "I wondered why you had not taken an American instead, when
there were so many to choose from, but now I understand it. What
beautiful tender things he can say, Bertha, and yet not seem in the least
sentimental. Everything comes so simply right from the bottom of his
heart. Just think what he said to me yesterday when he brought me
those flowers. He helps me with mine, and it is odd how things will
cheer up and grow for him, I said to him, 'Arthur, how is it that no
flower ever fails you?' and he answered in the gentlest quiet way,
'Perhaps because I never fail them. Flowers are like people,--one must
love and be true to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every
day--every hour--always.' And he says such things so often. That is
why I am so fond of him."

As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay
upon it motionless and silent,--only a large tear trembled on her cheek.
Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to' her.
"Oh, Bertha!" she cried, "how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poor
little soul! Is it true that you are so weak as all that? I heard mamma
and Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said you
must go to Normandy and be nursed."
"I don't want to go to Normandy," said Bertha, "I--I am too tired. I only
want to lie still and rest. I have been out too much."
Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural manner
Jenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed her
fervently.
"Oh, Bertha!" she said, "you must do anything--anything that will make
you well--if it is only for Arthur's sake. He loves you so--so terribly."
Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. "Does he," she said,
"love me so 'terribly'? Poor M. Villefort?"
She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society,
though not as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings
at home, some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M.
Villefort or Edmondstone read aloud or talked.
In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and
unhappiness grew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and
morbid.
One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a short
time, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken with
suppressed emotion.
"That man is killing you!" he exclaimed. "You are dying by inches! I
cannot bear it!"

"It is not he who is killing me," she answered; and then M. Villefort
returned to the room with the book he had been in search of.
In this case Edmondstone's passion took new phases. He wrote no
sonnets, painted no pictures. He neglected his work, and spent his idle
hours in rambling here and there in a gloomy, unsociable fashion.
"He looks," said M. Renard, "as if his soul had been playing him some
evil trick."
He had at first complained that Bertha had taken a capricious fancy to
Madame de Castro, but in course of time he found his way to the old
woman's salon too, though it must be confessed that Madame herself
never showed him any great favor. But this he did not care for. He only
cared to sit in the same room with Bertha, and watch her every
movement with a miserable tenderness.
One night, after regarding him cynically for some