I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. "You
are feverish," I said to him. "It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid
journey; that is all." "You have been to see Marguerite's sister?" "Yes;
who told you?" "I knew it. Did you get what you wanted?"

"Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?"

"The gardener of the cemetery."

"You have seen the tomb?"

I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken
proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which
I had witnessed before, and that every time his thoughts or speech
travelled back to that mournful subject emotion would still, for a long
time to come, prove stronger than his will. I contented myself with a
nod of the head.

"He has looked after it well?" continued Armand. Two big tears rolled
down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide
them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried to change the
conversation. "You have been away three weeks," I said.

Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, "Exactly three
weeks."

"You had a long journey."

"Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I
should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took
this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room."