“Yes.”

Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with the cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror. “You saw the person?” repeated the young girl.

“Yes,” repeated the count.

“What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe something too dreadful. What?⁠—attempt to murder me in my father’s house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are tempting me⁠—you make me doubt the goodness of Providence⁠—it is impossible, it cannot be!”