Lucien was ignominiously sick, and very nearly fainted on
the staircase.
"Quick, Berenice, some tea! Make some tea," cried Coralie.
"It is nothing; it is the air," Lucien got out, "and I have never
taken so much before in my life."
"Poor boy! He is as innocent as a lamb," said Berenice, a stalwart
Norman peasant woman as ugly as Coralie was pretty. Lucien, half
unconscious, was laid at last in bed. Coralie, with Berenice's
assistance, undressed the poet with all a mother's tender care.
"It is nothing," he murmured again and again. "It is the air. Thank
you, mamma."
"How charmingly he says 'mamma,'" cried Coralie, putting a kiss on
his hair.
"What happiness to love such an angel, mademoiselle! Where did you
pick him up? I did not think a man could be as beautiful as you are,"
said Berenice, when Lucien lay in bed. He was very drowsy; he knew
nothing and saw nothing; Coralie made him swallow several cups of tea,
and left him to sleep.
"Did the porter see us? Was there anyone else about?" she asked.
"No; I was sitting up for you."
"Does Victoire know anything?"
"Rather not!" returned Berenice.
Ten hours later Lucien awoke to meet Coralie's eyes. She had watched
by him as he slept; he knew it, poet that he was. It was almost noon,
but she still wore the delicate dress, abominably stained, which she
meant to lay up as a relic.
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