Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real presence of a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter a syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed to inquire, “If your intentions are pure, why are you here?” The count’s marvellous sagacity understood all that was passing in the young girl’s mind.
“Listen to me,” he said, “or, rather, look upon me; look at my face, paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness—for four days I have not closed them, for I have been constantly watching you, to protect and preserve you for Maximilian.”
The blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just announced by the count dispelled all the fear with which his presence had inspired her.
“Maximilian!” she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to her, that she repeated it—“Maximilian!—has he then owned all to you?”
“Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised him that you shall live.”
“You have promised him that I shall live?”
“Yes.”
“But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor?”
“Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe me.”
“But you say you have watched?” said Valentine uneasily; “where have you been?—I have not seen you.”
The count extended his hand towards the library.
“I was hidden behind that door,” he said, “which leads into the next house, which I have rented.”