But
scarcely had the doctor spoken, giving Julian hope, than the little dog
suddenly opened its eyes, shifted round in its nest of arm and bosom,
smelt furtively at Valentine's hand. Then it turned from the hand to the
side of its master, investigated it with a supreme anxiety, pursued its
search as far as the white, strict face and bared bosom. From the face
it recoiled, and with a piercing howl like the scream of a dog run over
by a cart, it sprang away, darted to the farthest corner of the room,
and huddled close against the wall in an agony of terror.
Julian turned cold. He believed implicitly that the trance at that very
moment had deepened into death, and that the sleepless instinct of the
dog had divined it partially while he slept, and now knew it and was
afraid. And the same error of belief shook Dr. Levillier. A spasm crossed
his thin, earnest face. No death had ever hurt him so sharply as this
death hurt him. He saw Julian recoil in horror from the divan, and he
could say nothing. For he, too, felt horror.
But in this moment of despair Valentine's hands slowly unclenched
themselves, and the fingers were gradually extended as by a man
stretching himself after a long sleep.
The doctor saw this, but believed himself a victim of a delusion, tricked
by the excitement of his mind into foolish visions.
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