Ги де Мопассан
Strong as Death
Olivier suffered thus in the presence of this singer, who seemed to scatter and to gather love in that opera-house, and he felt vexed with everyone because of the tenor’s triumph, with the women whom he saw applauding him from their boxes, with the men, those idiots who were giving a sort of apotheosis to that coxcomb!
An artist! They called him a artist, a great artist! And he had successes, this paid actor, interpreter of another’s thought, such as no creator had ever known! Ah, that was like the justice and the intelligence of the fashionable world, those ignorant and pretentious amateurs for whom the masters of human art work until death. He looked at them, applauding, shouting, going into ecstasies; and the ancient hostility that had always seethed at the bottom of his proud heart of a parvenu became a furious anger against those imbeciles, all-powerful only by right of birth and wealth.
Until the end of the performance he remained silent, a prey to thought; then when the storm of enthusiasm had at last subsided he offered his arm to the Duchess, while the Marquis took Annette’s. They descended the grand stairway again, in the midst of a stream of men and women, in a sort of slow and magnificent cascade of bare shoulders, sumptuous gowns, and black coats. Then the Duchess, the young girl, her father, and the Marquis entered the same landau, and Olivier Bertin remained alone with Musadieu in the Place de l’Opera.
Suddenly he felt a sort of affection for this man, or rather that natural attraction one feels for a fellow-countryman met in a distant land, for he now felt lost in that strange, indifferent crowd, whereas with Musadieu he might still speak of her.
So he took his arm.
“You are not going home now?” said he. “It is a fine night; let us take a walk.”
“Willingly.”
They went toward the Madeleine, in the mist of the nocturnal crowd possessed by that short and violent midnight excitement which stirs the Boulevards when the theaters are being emptied.
Musadieu had a thousand things in his mind, all his subjects for conversation from the moment when Bertin should name his preference; and he let his eloquence loose upon the two or three topics that interested him most. The painter allowed him to run on without listening to him, and holding him by the arm, sure of being able soon to lead him to talk of Annette, he walked along without noticing his surroundings, imprisoned within his love. He walked, exhausted by that fit of jealousy which had bruised him like a fall, overcome by the conviction that he had nothing more to do in the world.
He should go on suffering thus, more and more, without expecting anything. He should pass empty days, one after another, seeing her from afar, living, happy, loved and loving, without doubt. A lover! Perhaps she would have a lover, as her mother had had one! He felt within him sources of suffering so numerous, diverse, and complicated, such an afflux of miseries, such inevitable tortures, he felt so lost, so far overwhelmed, from this moment, by a wave of unimaginable agony that he could not suppose anyone ever had suffered as he did. And he suddenly thought of the puerility of poets who have invented the useless labor of Sisyphus, the material thirst of Tantalus, the devoured heart of Prometheus! Oh, if they had foreseen, if they had experienced the mad love of an elderly man for a young girl, how would they had expressed the painful and secret effort of a being who can no longer inspire love, the tortures of fruitless desire, and, more terrible than a vulture’s beak, a little blonde face rending a heart!
Musadieu talked without stopping, and Bertin interrupted him, murmuring almost in spite of himself, under the impulse of his fixed idea:
“Annette was charming this evening.”
“Yes, delicious!”
The painter added, to prevent Musadieu from taking up the broken thread of his ideas: “She is prettier than her mother ever was.”
To this the other agreed absent-mindedly, repeating “Yes, yes, yes!” several times in succession, without his mind having yet settled itself on this new idea.
Olivier endeavored to continue the subject, and in order to attract his attention by one of Musadieu’s own favorite fads, he continued:
“She will have one of the first salons in Paris after her marriage.”
That was enough, and, the man of fashion being convinced, as well as the Inspector of Fine Arts, he began to talk wisely of the social footing on which the Marquise de Farandal would stand in French society.
Bertin listened to him, and fancied Annette in a large salon full of light, surrounded by men and women. This vision, too, made him jealous.
They were now going up the Boulevard Malesherbes. As they passed the Guilleroys’ house the painter looked up. Lights seemed to be shining through the windows, among the openings in the curtains. He suspected that the Duchess and the Marquis had been invited to come and have a cup of tea. And a burning rage made him suffer terribly.
He still held Musadieu by the arm, and once or twice attempted to continue, by contradicting Musadieu’s opinions, the talk about the future Marquise. Even that commonplace voice in speaking of her caused her charming image to flit beside them in the night.
When they arrived at the painter’s door, in the Avenue de Villiers, Bertin asked: “Will you come in?”
“No, thank you. It is late, and I am going to bed.”
“Oh, come up for half an hour, and we’ll have a little more talk.”
“No, really. It is too late.”
The thought of staying there alone, after the anguish he had just endured, filled Olivier’s soul with horror. He had someone with him; he would keep him.
“Do come up; I want you to choose a study that I have intended for a long time to offer you.”
The other, knowing that painters are not always in a giving mood, and that the remembrance of promises is short, seized the opportunity. In his capacity as Inspector of Fine Arts, he possessed a gallery that had been furnished with skill.
“I am with you,” said he.
They entered.
The valet was aroused and soon brought some grog; and the talk was for some time all about painting. Bertin showed some studies, and begged Musadieu to take the one that pleased him best; Musadieu hesitated, disturbed by the gaslight, which deceived him as to tones. At last he chose a group of little girls jumping the rope on a sidewalk; and almost at once he wished to depart, and to take his present with him.
“I will have it taken to your house,” said the painter.
“No; I should like better to have it this very evening, so that I may admire it while I am going to bed,” said Musadieu.
Nothing could keep him, and Olivier Bertin found himself again alone in his house, that prison of his memories and his painful agitation.
When the servant entered the next morning, bringing tea and the newspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed, so pale and shaken that he was alarmed.
“Is Monsieur indisposed?” he inquired.
“It is nothing – only a little headache.”
“Does not Monsieur wish me to bring him something?”
“No. What sort of weather is it?”
“It rains, Monsieur.”
“Very well. That is all.”
The man withdrew, having placed on the little table the tea-tray and the newspapers.
Olivier took up the Figaro and opened it. The leading article was entitled “Modern Painting.” It was a dithyrambic eulogy on four or five young painters who, gifted with real ability as colorists, and exaggerating them for effect, now pretended to be revolutionists and renovators of genius.
As did all the older painters, Bertin sneered at these newcomers, was irritated at their assumption of exclusiveness, and disputed their doctrines. He began to read the article, then, with the rising anger so quickly felt by a nervous person; at last, glancing a little further down, he saw his own name, and these words at the end of a sentence struck him like a blow of the fist full in the chest: “The old-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin.”
He had always been sensitive to either criticism or praise, but, at the bottom of his heart, in spite of his legitimate vanity, he suffered more from being criticised than he enjoyed being praised, because of the uneasiness concerning himself which his hesitations had always encouraged. Formerly, however, at the time of his triumphs, the incense offered was so frequent that it made him forget the pin-pricks. To-day, before the ceaseless influx of new artists and new admirers, congratulations were more rare and criticism was more marked. He felt that he had been enrolled in the battalion of old painters of talent, whom the younger ones do not treat as masters; and as he was as intelligent as he was perspicacious he suffered now from the least insinuations as much as from direct attacks.
But never had any wound to his pride as an artist hurt him like this. He remained gasping, and reread the article in order to grasp its every meaning. He and his equals were thrown aside with outrageous disrespect; and he arose murmuring those words, which remained on his lips: “The old-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin.”
Never had such sadness, such discouragement, such a sensation of having reached the end of everything, the end of his mental and physical being, thrown him into such desperate distress of soul. He sat until two o’clock in his armchair, before the fireplace, his legs extended toward the fire, not having strength to move, or to do anything. Then the need of being consoled rose within him, the need to clasp devoted hands, to see faithful eyes, to be pitied, succored, caressed with friendly words. So he went, as usual, to the Countess.
When he entered Annette was alone in the drawing-room, standing with her back toward him, hastily writing the address on a letter. On a table beside her lay a copy of Figaro. Bertin saw the journal at the moment that he saw the young girl and was bewildered, not daring to advance! Oh, if she had read it! She turned, and in a preoccupied, hurried way, her mind haunted with feminine cares, she said to him:
“Ah, good-morning, sir painter! You will excuse me if I leave you? I have a dressmaker upstairs who claims me. You understand that a dressmaker, at the time of a wedding, is very important. I will lend you mamma, who is talking and arguing with my artist. If I need her I will call her for a few minutes.”
And she hastened away, running a little, to show how much she was hurried.
This abrupt departure, without a word of affection, without a tender look for him who loved her so much – so much! – quite upset him. His eyes rested again on the Figaro, and he thought: “She has read it! They laugh at me, they deny me. She no longer believes in me. I am nothing to her any more.”
He took two steps toward the journal, as one walks toward a man to strike him. Then he said to himself: “Perhaps she has not read it, after all. She is so preoccupied to-day. But someone will undoubtedly speak of it before her, perhaps this evening, at dinner, and that will make her curious to read it.”
With a spontaneous, almost unthinking, movement he took the copy, closed it, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket with the swiftness of a thief.
The Countess entered. As soon as she saw Olivier’s convulsed and livid face, she guessed that he had reached the limit of suffering.
She hastened toward him, with an impulse from all her poor soul, so agonized also, and from her poor body, that was itself so wounded. Throwing her hands upon his shoulders, and plunging her glance into the depths of his eyes, she said:
“Oh, how unhappy you are!”
This time he did not deny it; his throat swelled with a spasm of pain, and he stammered:
“Yes – yes – yes!”
She felt that he was near weeping, and led him into the darkest corner of the drawing-room, toward two armchairs hidden by a small screen of antique silk. They sat down behind this slight embroidered wall, veiled also by the gray shadow of a rainy day.
She resumed, pitying him, deeply moved by his grief:
“My poor Olivier, how you suffer!”
He leaned his white head on the shoulder of his friend.
“More than you believe!” he said.
“Oh, I knew it! I have felt it all. I saw it from the beginning and watched it grow.”
He answered as if she had accused him: “It is not my faulty, Any.”
“I know it well; I do not reproach you for it.”
And softly, turning a little, she laid her lips on one of Olivier’s eyes, where she found a bitter tear.
She started, as if she had just tasted a drop of despair, and repeated several times:
“Ah, poor friend – poor friend – poor friend!”
Then after a moment of silence she added: “It is the fault of our hearts, which never have grown old. I feel that my own is full of life!”
He tried to speak but could not, for now his sobs choked him. She listened, as he leaned against her, to the struggle in his breast. Then, seized by the selfish anguish of love, which had gnawed at her heart so long, she said in the agonized tone in which one realizes a horrible misfortune:
“God! how you love her!”
Again he confessed: “Ah, yes! I love her!”
She reflected a few moments, then continued: “You never have loved me thus?”
He did not deny it, for he was passing through one of those periods in which one speaks with absolute truth, and he murmured:
“No, I was too young then.”
She was surprised.
“Too young? Why?”
“Because life was too sweet. It is only at our age that one loves despairingly.”
“Does the love you feel for her resemble that which you felt for me?” the Countess asked.
“Yes and no – and yet it is almost the same thing. I have loved you as much as anyone can love a woman. As for her, I love her just as I loved you, since she is yourself; but this love has become something irresistible, destroying, stronger than death. I belong to it as a burning house belongs to the fire.”
She felt her sympathy wither up under a breath of jealousy; but, assuming a consoling tone, she said:
“My poor friend! In a few days she will be married and gone. When you see her no more no doubt you will be cured of this fancy.”
He shook his head.
“Oh, I am lost, lost, lost!”
“No, no, I say! It will be three months before you see her again. That will be sufficient. Three months were quite enough for you to love her more than you love me, whom you have known for twelve years!”
Then, in his infinite distress, he implored: “Any, do not abandon me!”
“What can I do, my friend?”
“Do not leave me alone.”
“I will go to see you as often as you wish.”
“No. Keep me here as much as possible.”
“But then you would be near her.”
“And near you!”
“You must not see her any more before her marriage.”
“Oh, Any!”
“Well, at least, not often.”
“May I stay here this evening?”
“No, not in your present condition. You must divert your mind; go to the club, or the theater – no matter where, but do not stay here.”
“I entreat you – ”
“No, Olivier, it is impossible. And, besides, I have guests coming to dinner whose presence would agitate you still more.”
“The Duchess and – he!”
“Yes.”
“But I spent last evening with them.”
“And you speak of it! You are in a fine state to-day.”
“I promise you to be calm.”
“No, it is impossible.”
“Then I am going away.”
“Why do you hurry now?”
“I must walk.”
“That is right! Walk a great deal, walk until evening, kill yourself with fatigue and then go to bed.”
He had risen.
“Good-by, Any!”
“Good-by, dear friend. I will come to see you to-morrow morning. Would you like me to do something very imprudent, as I used to do – pretend to breakfast here at noon, and then go and have breakfast with you at a quarter past one?”
“Yes, I should like it very much. You are so good!”
“It is because I love you.”
“And I love you, too.”
“Oh, don’t speak of that any more!”
“Good-by, Any.”
“Good-by, dear friend, till to-morrow.”
“Good-by!”
He kissed her hands many times, then he kissed her brow, then the corner of her lips. His eyes were dry now, his bearing resolute. Just as he was about to go, he seized her, clasped her close in both arms, and pressing his lips to her forehead, he seemed to drink in, to inhale from her all the love she had for him.
Then he departed quickly, without turning toward her again.
When she was alone she let herself sink, sobbing, upon a chair. She would have remained there till night if Annette had not suddenly appeared in search of her. In order to gain time to dry her red eyelids, the Countess answered: “I have a little note to write, my child. Go up-stairs, and I will join you in a few seconds.”
She was compelled to occupy herself with the great affair of the trousseau until evening.
The Duchess and her nephew dined with the Guilleroys, as a family party. They had just seated themselves at table, and were speaking of the opera of the night before, when the butler appeared, carrying three enormous bouquets.
Madame de Mortemain was surprised.
“Good gracious! What is that?”
“Oh, how lovely they are!” exclaimed Annette; “who can have sent them?”
“Olivier Bertin, no doubt,” replied her mother.
She had been thinking of him since his departure. He had seemed so gloomy, so tragic, she understood so clearly his hopeless sorrow, she felt so keenly the counter-stroke of that grief, she loved him so much, so entirely, so tenderly, that her heart was weighed down by sad presentiments.
In the three bouquets were found three of the painter’s cards. He had written on them in pencil, respectively, the names of the Countess, the Duchess, and Annette.
“Is he ill, your friend Bertin?” the Duchess inquired. “I thought he looked rather bad last night.”
“Yes, I am a little anxious about him, although he does not complain,” Madame de Guilleroy answered.
“Oh, he is growing old, like all the rest of us,” her husband interposed. “He is growing old quite fast, indeed. I believe, however, that bachelors usually go to pieces suddenly. Their breaking-up comes more abruptly than ours. He really is very much changed.”
“Ah, yes!” sighed the Countess.
Farandal suddenly stopped his whispering to Annette to say: “The Figaro has a very disagreeable article about him this morning.”
Any attack, any criticism or allusion unfavorable to her friend’s talent always threw the Countess into a passion.
“Oh,” said she, “men of Bertin’s importance need not mind such rudeness.”
Guilleroy was astonished.
“What!” he exclaimed, “a disagreeable article about Olivier! But I have not read it. On what page?”
The Marquis informed him: “The first page, at the top, with the title, ‘Modern Painting.’”
And the deputy ceased to be astonished. “Oh, exactly! I did not read it because it was about painting.”
Everyone smiled, knowing that apart from politics and agriculture M. de Guilleroy was interested in very few things.
The conversation turned upon other subjects until they entered the drawing-room to take coffee. The Countess was not listening and hardly answered, being pursued by anxiety as to what Olivier might be doing. Where was he? Where had he dined? Where had he taken his hopeless heart at that moment? She now felt a burning regret at having let him go, not to have kept him; and she fancied him roving the streets, so sad and lonely, fleeing under his burden of woe.
Up to the time of the departure of the Duchess and her nephew she had hardly spoken, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went to bed and lay there long, her eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking of him!
A very long time had passed when she thought she heard the bell of her apartment ring. She started, sat up and listened. A second time the vibrating tinkle broke the stillness of the night.
She leaped out of bed, and with all her strength pressed the electric button that summoned her maid. Then, candle in hand, she ran to the vestibule.
Through the door she asked: “Who is there?”
“It is a letter,” an unknown voice replied.
“A letter! From whom?”
“From a physician.”
“What physician?”
“I do not know; it is about some accident.”
Hesitating no more, she opened the door, and found herself facing a cab-driver in an oilskin cap. He held a paper in his hand, which he presented to her. She read: “Very urgent – Monsieur le Comte de Guilleroy.”
The writing was unknown.
“Enter, my good man,” said she; “sit down, and wait for me.”
When she reached her husband’s door her heart was beating so violently that she could not call him. She pounded on the wood with her metal candlestick. The Count was asleep and did not hear.
Then, impatient, nervous, she kicked the door, and heard a sleepy voice asking: “Who is there? What time is it?”
“It is I,” she called. “I have an urgent letter for you, brought by a cabman. There has been some accident.”
“Wait! I am getting up. I’ll be there,” he stammered from behind his bed-curtains.
In another minute he appeared in his dressing-gown. At the same time two servants came running, aroused by the ringing of the bell. They were alarmed and bewildered, having seen a stranger sitting on a chair in the dining-room.
The Count had taken the letter and was turning it over in his fingers, murmuring: “What is that? I cannot imagine.”
“Well, read it, then!” said the Countess, in a fever.
He tore off the envelope, unfolded the paper, uttered an exclamation of amazement, then looked at his wife with frightened eyes.
“My God! what is it?” said she.
He stammered, hardly able to speak, so great was his emotion: “Oh, a great misfortune – a great misfortune! Bertin has fallen under a carriage!”
“Dead?” she cried.
“No, no!” said he; “read for yourself.”
She snatched from his hand the letter he held out and read:
“MONSIEUR: A great misfortune has just happened. Your friend, the eminent artist, M. Olivier Bertin, has been run over by an omnibus, the wheel of which passed over his body. I cannot as yet say anything decisive as to the probable result of this accident, which may not be serious, although it may have an immediate and fatal result. M. Bertin begs you earnestly and entreats Madame la Comtesse de Guilleroy to come to him at once. I hope, Monsieur, that Madame la Comtesse and yourself will grant the desire of our friend in common, who before daylight may have ceased to live.
“DR. DE RIVIL.”
The Countess stared at her husband with great, fixed eyes, full of terror. Then suddenly she experienced, like an electric shock, an awakening of that courage which comes to women at times, which makes them in moments of terror the most valiant of creatures.
Turning to her maid she said: “Quick! I am going to dress.”
“What will Madame wear?” asked the servant.
“Never mind that. Anything you like. James,” she added, “be ready in five minutes.”
Returning toward her room, her soul overwhelmed, she noticed the cabman, still waiting, and said to him: “You have your carriage?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“That is well; we will take that.”
Wildly, with precipitate haste, she threw on her clothes, hooking, clasping, tying, and fastening at hap-hazard; then, before the mirror, she lifted and twisted her hair without a semblance of order, gazing without thinking of what she was doing at the reflection of her pale face and haggard eyes.
When her cloak was over her shoulders, she rushed to her husband’s room, but he was not yet ready. She dragged him along.
“Come, come!” said she; “remember, he may die!”
The Count, dazed, followed her stumblingly, feeling his way with his feet on the dark stairs, trying to distinguish the steps, so that he should not fall.
The drive was short and silent. The Countess trembled so violently that her teeth rattled, and through the window she saw the flying gas-jets, veiled by the falling rain. The sidewalks gleamed, the Boulevard was deserted, the night was sinister. On arriving, they found that the painter’s door was open, and that the concierge’s lodge was lighted but empty.
At the top of the stairs the physician, Dr. de Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very well dressed, extremely polite, came to meet them. He bowed low to the Countess and held out his hand to the Count.
She asked him, breathing rapidly as if climbing the stairs had exhausted her and put her out of breath:
“Well, doctor?”
“Well, Madame, I hope that it will be less serious than I thought at first.”
“He will not die?” she exclaimed.
“No. At least, I do not believe so.”
“Will you answer for that?”
“No. I only say that I hope to find only a simple abdominal contusion without internal lesions.”
“What do you call lesions?”
“Lacerations.”
“How do you know that there are none?”
“I suppose it.”
“And if there are?”
“Oh, then it would be serious.”
“He might die of them?”
“Yes.”
“Very soon?”
“Very soon. In a few minutes or even seconds. But reassure yourself, Madame; I am convinced that he will be quite well again in two weeks.”
She had listened, with profound attention, to know all and understand all.
“What laceration might he have?”
“A laceration of the liver, for instance.”
“That would be very dangerous?”
“Yes – but I should be surprised to find any complication now. Let us go to him. It will do him good, for he awaits you with great impatience.”
On entering the room she saw first a pale face on a white pillow. Some candles and the firelight illumined it, defined the profile, deepened the shadows; and in that pale face the Countess saw two eyes that watched her coming.
All her courage, energy, and resolution fell, so much did those hollow and altered features resemble those of a dying man. He, whom she had seen only a little while ago, had become this thing, this specter! “Oh, my God!” she murmured between her teeth, and she approached him, palpitating with horror.
He tried to smile, to reassure her, and the grimace of that attempt was frightful.
When she was beside the bed, she put both hands gently on one of Olivier’s, which lay along his body, and stammered: “Oh, my poor friend!”
“It is nothing,” said he, in a low tone, without moving his head.
She now looked at him closely, frightened at the change in him. He was so pale that he seemed no longer to have a drop of blood under his skin. His hollow cheeks seemed to have been sucked in from the interior of his face, and his eyes were sunken as if drawn by a string from within.
He saw the terror of his friend, and sighed: “Here I am in a fine state!”
“How did it happen?” she asked, looking at him with fixed gaze.
He was making a great effort to speak, and his whole face twitched with pain.
“I was not looking about me – I was thinking of something else – something very different – oh, yes! – and an omnibus knocked me down and ran over my abdomen.”
As she listened she saw the accident, and shaking with terror, she asked: “Did you bleed?”
“No. I am only a little bruised – a little crushed.”
“Where did it happen?” she inquired.
“I do not know exactly,” he answered in a very low voice; “it was far away from here.”
The physician rolled up an armchair, and the Countess sank into it. The Count remained standing at the foot of the bed, repeating between his teeth: “Oh, my poor friend! my poor friend! What a frightful misfortune!”
And he was indeed deeply grieved, for he loved Olivier very much.
“But where did it happen?” the Countess repeated.
“I know hardly anything about it myself, or rather I do not understand it at all,” the physician replied. “It was at the Gobelins, almost outside of Paris! At least, the cabman that brought him home declared to me that he took him in at a pharmacy of that quarter, to which someone had carried him, at nine o’clock in the evening!” Then, leaning toward Olivier, he asked: “Did the accident really happen near the Gobelins?”
Bertin closed his eyes, as if to recollect; then murmured: “I do not know.”
“But where were you going?”
“I do not remember now. I was walking straight before me.”
A groan that she could not stifle came from the Countess’s lips; then oppressed with a choking that stopped her breathing a few seconds, she drew out her handkerchief, covered her eyes, and wept bitterly.
She knew – she guessed! Something intolerable, overwhelming had just fallen on her heart – remorse for not keeping Olivier near her, for driving him away, for throwing him into the street, where, stupefied with grief, he had fallen under the omnibus.
He said in that colorless voice he now had: “Do not weep. It distresses me.”
By a tremendous effort of will, she ceased to sob, uncovered her eyes and fixed them, wide open, upon him, without a quiver of her face, whereon the tears continued slowly to roll down.
They looked at each other, both motionless, their hands clasped under the coverlet. They gazed at each other, no longer knowing that any other person was in the room; and that gaze carried a superhuman emotion from one heart to the other.
They gazed upon each other, and the need of talking, unheard, of hearing the thousand intimate things, so sad, which they had still to say, rose irresistibly to their lips. She felt that she must at any price send away the two men that stood behind her; she must find a way, some ruse, some inspiration, she, the woman, fruitful in resources! She began to reflect, her eyes always fixed on Olivier.
Her husband and the doctor were talking in undertones, discussing the care to be given. Turning her head the Countess said to the doctor: “Have you brought a nurse?”
“No, I prefer to send a hospital surgeon, who will keep a better watch over the case.”
“Send both. One never can be too careful. Can you still get them to-night, for I do not suppose you will stay here till morning?”
“Indeed, I was just about to go home. I have been here four hours already.”
“But on your way back you will send us the nurse and the surgeon?”
“It will be difficult in the middle of the night. But I shall try.”
“You must!”
“They may promise, but will they come?”
“My husband will accompany you and will bring them back either willingly or by force.”
“You cannot remain here alone, Madame!”
“I?” she exclaimed with a sort of cry of defiance, of indignant protest against any resistance to her will. Then she pointed out, in that authoritative tone to which no one ventures a reply, the necessities of the situation. It was necessary that the nurse and the surgeon should be there within an hour, to forestall all accident. To insure this, someone must get out of bed and bring them. Her husband alone could do that. During this time she would remain near the injured man, she, for whom it was a duty and a right. She would thereby simply fulfil her role of friend, her role of woman. Besides, this was her will, and no one should dissuade her from it.
