"How came I here? I am a prisoner, am I not?"
"A prisoner!" she exclaimed. "No, no, you are not a prisoner. You are
among friends."
"Did I then but dream that Montr?sor arrested me yesterday on the road to
Meung? Ah! I recollect! M. de Montr?sor gave me leave on parole to go to
Reaux."
Then, like an avalanche, remembrance swept down upon me, and my memory drew
a vivid picture of the happenings at St. Sulpice.
"My God!" I cried. "Am I not dead, then?" And I sought to struggle up
into a sitting posture, but that gentle hand upon my forehead restrained
and robbed me of all will that was not hers.
"Hush, Monsieur!" she said softly. "Lie still. By a miracle and the
faithfulness of Michelot you live. Be thankful, be content, and sleep."
"But my wounds, Mademoiselle?" I inquired feebly.
"They are healed."
"Healed?" quoth I, and in my amazement my voice sounded louder than it had
yet done since my awakening. "Healed! Three such wounds as I took last
night, to say naught of a broken head, healed?"
"'T was not last night, Monsieur."
"Not last night? Was it not last night that I went to Reaux?"
"It is nearly a month since that took place," she answered with a smile.
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