“Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that’s all. Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence.”

“Go and fetch Lord de Winter,” said Felton, tired of these eternal complaints.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Milady; “no, sir, do not call him, I conjure you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him.”

She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps into the room.

He has come! thought Milady.

“Meanwhile, Madame, if you really suffer,” said Felton, “a physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us⁠—well, it will be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach ourselves with anything.”