This was Lady d'Harville.
"In mercy, sir," said she to the director, with the greatest anxiety,
"conduct me to Miss de Fermont."
"Be good enough to follow me, my lady," answered the director,
respectfully. "She is at No. 17, in this hall."
"Unfortunate child! here, here!" said Lady d'Harville, wiping her eyes;
"oh, it is frightful!"
Preceded by the director, she advanced rapidly toward the group assembled
around the bed, when these words were heard, pronounced with indignation:
"I tell you that it is murder--you will kill her, sir."
"But, my dear Saint Reiny, listen then--"
"I repeat to you, sir, that your conduct is atrocious. I regard Miss de
Fermont as my daughter. I forbid you to approach her; I will have her
immediately removed hence."
"But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare. I wish
to try phosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise me at least that I
shall take care of her. What matters it where you take her, since you
deprive my clinique of a _subject_ so precious?"
"If you were not mad, you would be a monster," answered the Count de Saint
Remy.
Clemence listened to these words with increasing anguish; but the crowd was
so dense that the director was obliged to say in a loud voice: "Make room,
gentlemen, if you please--make room for her ladyship, the most noble the
Marchioness d'Harville, who comes to see No.
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