“Yes,” I replied, taking her hand with a familiarity that was quite out of place, but so quietly that she was not offended, so well did she understand the condition of my mind; “yes, madame, you must pardon my preoccupation and my forgetfulness. It was through devotion to you that I have played a very dangerous game, and I owe you at least an account of the result. I have been ordered to carry out my father’s intentions and make you win your suit.” Whether she expected this answer, or whether she doubted my sanity, Madame d’Ionis showed neither surprise or disappointment. She contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, and shaking my arm as if to awake me. “My poor child,” said she, “you have been dreaming, that is all. For a moment I shared your exaltation, I hoped at least that it would bring you back to the ideas of delicacy and justice that at heart you cherish. But I know not what exaggerated scruples or what habits of passive obedience to your father, have caused you to hear such chimerical words. Shake off these illusions, there have been no ghosts, nor has there been any mysterious voice, your head was affected by the indigestible perusal of that old manuscript, and by the abbé Lamyre’s doleful stories. I am going to explain how it all happened.” She talked with me for some time; but my efforts to listen and understand were in vain. At times it seemed as if she were speaking an unknown language. When she saw that the words that fell upon my ear were not communicated to my brain, she grew seriously alarmed about me, felt my pulse to see if I had any fever, asked me if my head ached, and begged me to go and lie down. I understood that she gave me permission to be alone and I gladly ran and threw myself upon my bed, not that I felt the least fatigue, but because I kept thinking all the time that could I but sleep, I might again behold the celestial beauty of my immortal nymph. I do not know how the rest of the day passed. I had no knowledge of it. The next morning I saw Baptiste walking through the room on tip-toe. “What are you doing, _mon ami_?” I asked. “I am sitting up with you, my dear master,” he replied. “Thank God you have slept two good hours. You feel better, don’t you?” “I feel very well, have I then been ill?” “You had a severe attack of fever last evening, and it lasted part of the night. It was the effect of the great heat. You never think of putting on your hat when you go in the garden. Yet _madame votre mère_ gave you so many cautions about it.” Zéphyrine entered, asked about me with much interest and made me promise to take _another_ spoonful of _my_ soothing potion. “Very well,” said I, although I had no recollection of this potion, “a sick guest is an inconvenience and all I ask is to get well quickly.”