Explore "The House of the Wolf" by Stanley J. Weyman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Croisette used to tell a story, of the facts of which I have no remembrance, save as a bad dream. He would have it that I left my pallet that night -- I had one to myself in the summer, being the eldest, while he and Marie slept on another in the same room -- and came to him and awoke him, sobbing and shaking and clutching him; and begging him in a fit of terror not to let me go. And that so I slept in his arms until morning. But as I have said, I do not remember anything of this, only that I had an ugly dream that night, and that when I awoke I was lying with him and Marie; so I cannot say whether it really happened.
At any rate, if I had any feeling of the kind it did not last long; on the contrary -- it would be idle to deny it -- I was flattered by the sudden respect, Gil and the servants showed me. What Catherine thought of the matter I could not tell. She had her letter and apparently found it satisfactory. At any rate we saw nothing of her. Madame Claude was busy boiling simples, and tending the messenger's hurts. And it seemed natural that I should take command.