“I know,” added she, “that this is not to be effected without difficulty. 'Madame' will oppose it to the last; and it may be that nothing short of force will accomplish it.”
I asked the reason of this repugnance, and she only gave me a vague, unmeaning answer. It was clear to me there was a mystery in the affair; and though piqued that I was not intrusted with the secret, I felt that to withdraw my aid from them on such grounds would be both selfish and unworthy.
“I will consult M. le Monnier,” said I, at last; “he shall decide what is best to be done;” and at once set out for the Rue Quincampoix.
The old lawyer received me blandly as before, and gave me a few lines for his family physician, who would see the widow and Marguerite, and pronounce his opinion on their fitness for removal. Le Monnier seemed pleased with the interest I manifested for these poor friendless people, and readily promised to aid me in their behalf.
The doctor, too, was no less benevolently disposed, and came at once with me to the house. His visit was a long one,—so long that more than once I asked Lizette if she were quite certain that he had not taken his departure. At length, however, he came forth, and, leading me into a room, closed the door behind us with all the air of great secrecy.
“There is some sad story,” said he, “here, of which we have not the clew. This is a serious affair.”
“How do you mean?” asked I.
“I mean that the state in which I find this woman is not attributable to the recent shock. It is not her husband's death has caused these symptoms.”
“And what are they? Do they threaten her life?”
“No, certainly not; she may live for years.”