"Pierre," said he, in a low voice, to hasten his coming, "Pierre!" Doctor Dufour advanced rapidly toward David, when the latter heard a voice whisper: "Doctor, I must speak to you." At this voice Doctor Dufour stopped abruptly before the door of the dining-room, where he entered. "Whose is this voice?" thought David. "Is it Marguerite? My God! what has happened?" and he listened on the side where the doctor entered. "It is Pierre who is talking; his exclamations announce indignation, dismay. There, he is coming out at last; here he is." In fact, Doctor Dufour, his face altered, and frowning with anger, entered the library, his hands still clasped in a gesture of horror, and exclaimed: "It is horrible! it is infamous!" David, thinking only of Marie, sprang to meet his friend. "Pierre, in the name of Heaven, how is she? The truth! I will have courage, but for pity's sake, the truth, frightful as it may be. There is no torture equal to what I have endured here for three hours, asking myself, is she living, agonising, or dead?" The distorted features of David, his glowing eyes, red with recent tears, the inflection of his voice, betrayed at the same time so much despair and so much love, that Doctor Dufour, although himself under the power of violent emotion, stopped short at the sight of his friend, and gazed at him some moments before replying to him. "Pierre, you tell me nothing, nothing!" cried David, distracted with grief. "Is she dying, then?" "No, Henri, she is not dying." "She will live!" cried David. At this hope, his face became transfigured; he pressed the physician to his breast, as he murmured, unable to restrain his tears: "I shall owe you more than life, Pierre." "Henri," replied the doctor, with a sigh, "I have not said that she would live." "You fear?" "Very much." "Oh, my God! but at least you hope?" "I dare not yet." "And how is she at this moment?" "More calm, she is sleeping." "Oh, she must live, she must live, Pierre! she will live, will she not? she will live?" "Henri, you love her." Recalled to himself by these words of his friend, David trembled, remained silent, with his eyes fixed on the eyes of the doctor. The latter answered, in a grave and sad tone: "Henri, you love her. I have not surprised your secret. You have just revealed it yourself." "I?" "By your grief." "It is true, I love her." "Henri," cried the doctor, with tears in his eyes and with deep emotion, "Henri, I pity you, oh, I pity you." "It is a love without hope, I know it; but let her live, and I will bless the torments that I must endure near her, because her son, who binds us for ever, will always be a link between her and me." "Yes, your love is without hope, Henri; yes, delicacy will always prevent your ever letting Marie suspect your sentiments. But that is not all, and I repeat it to you, Henri, you are more to be pitied than you think." "My God! Pierre, what do you mean?"