violently. M. Auvray turned towards him, to ask what had happened.
"Nothing," he replied. "She's coming. I hear her. This is joy . . . but it overcomes me. Happiness falls upon me like snow. The winter will be hard for lovers. Doctor, see what's going on in my head."
M. Morlot ran to him, saying:
"Enough! Don't be crazy any more! I no longer want you to be an idiot. People will say that I stole your wits. I'm honest, doctor; look at my hands; search my pockets; send to my house. Rue de Charonne, in the Faubourg St. Antoine; open all the drawers; you'll see that I've nothing that belongs to anybody else."
The doctor stood much perplexed between his two patients, when a door opened, and Claire came in to tell her father that breakfast was waiting.
François jumped up as if propelled by a spring, but only his wishes reached Mlle. Auvray. His body fell heavily on the sofa. He could scarcely murmur a few words.
"Claire! It is I. I love you. Will you? . . ."
He passed his hand over his brow. His pale face flushed violently. The temples throbbed fiercely, and he felt a heavy oppression over his eyelids. Claire, as near dead as alive, caught up his two hands. His skin was dry, and his pulse so hard that the poor girl was terrified. It was
