one of Tragedy, and they concluded that this was but the fulfilment of the second half of her promise.
"Admirable! What passion—what earnestness!" and a round of applause rang round the room.
"Gentlemen, pray do not mock me. I am not acting; I am in earnest. My husband is dying, perhaps dead. For Heaven's love, help him while there is yet time!"
A murmur of admiration was the only reply that this appeal elicited. The spectators were as men spell-bound.
"Doctor, you have the key; I gave it to you. I love him. He is in deadly peril. Give me the key, I say, give me the key, or I shall die!"
It was agreed by all present that Céline had surpassed herself—that is to say, by all but one.
"Gentlemen," said the Doctor, "this lady is not acting; she is in earnest. See her colour comes and goes."
"Nonsense, Doctor! Madame is acting, and acting admirably. Strange that so old a hand as you should be deceived."
"It would be strange indeed if I were deceived, but I am not. I take upon myself to believe that she is in mortal earnest, and in that belief I shall comply with her wish."
Undeterred by the ridicule with which his resolve was received, he went to the door and unlocked it. Céline rushed eagerly towards it, when she saw, standing in the open doorway, her husband, pale, stern, and unwounded.
