"And where did you get this gangrene?" asked the old maid, unmoved
from her peasant incredulity.
"I had a letter from Henri which leaves me in no doubt as to my fate.
He has murdered me. And--just when I meant to live honestly--to die an
object of disgust!
"Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge. Be kind to that family to
whom I have left by my will everything I can dispose of. Go, child,
though you are the only creature who, at this hour, does not avoid me
with horror--go, I beseech you, and leave me.--I have only time to
make my peace with God!"
"She is wandering in her wits," said Lisbeth to herself, as she left
the room.
The strongest affection known, that of a woman for a woman, had not
such heroic constancy as the Church. Lisbeth, stifled by the miasma,
went away. She found the physicians still in consultation. But
Bianchon's opinion carried the day, and the only question now was how
to try the remedies.
"At any rate, we shall have a splendid _post-mortem_," said one of his
opponents, "and there will be two cases to enable us to make
comparisons."
Lisbeth went in again with Bianchon, who went up to the sick woman
without seeming aware of the malodorous atmosphere.
"Madame," said he, "we intend to try a powerful remedy which may save
you--"
"And if you save my life," said she, "shall I be as good-looking as
ever?"
"Possibly," said the judicious physician.
"I know your _possibly_," said Valerie.
Pages:
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558