He then came out, and said he would draw a prescription. He did so.
“Doctor,” said La Klosking, “tell me the truth. It cannot be worse than I fear.”
“Madam,” said the doctor, “medicine can do nothing for him. The spinal cord is divided. Give him anything he fancies, and my prescription if he suffers pain, not otherwise. Shall I send you a nurse?”
“No,” said Mademoiselle Klosking, “we will nurse him night and day.”
He retired, and the friends entered on their sad duties.
When Severne saw them both by his bedside, with earnest looks of pity, he said, “Do not worry yourselves. I'm booked for the long journey. Ah, well, I shall die where I ought to have lived, and might have, if I had not been a fool.”
Ina wept bitterly.
They nursed him night and day. He suffered little, and when he did, Miss Gale stupefied the pain at once; for, as she truly said, “Nothing can hurt him.” Vitality gradually retired to his head, and lingered there a whole day. But, to his last moment, the art of pleasing never abandoned him. Instead of worrying for this or that every moment, he showed in this desperate condition singular patience and well-bred fortitude. He checked his wife's tears; assured her it was all for the best, and that he was reconciled to the inevitable. “I have had a happier time than I deserve,” said he, “and now I have a painless death, nursed by two sweet women. My only regret is that I shall not be able to repay your devotion, Ina, nor become worthy of your friendship, Miss Gale.”
He died without fear, it being his conviction that he should return after death to the precise condition in which he was before birth; and when they begged him to see a clergyman, he said, “Pray do not give yourselves or him that trouble. I can melt back into the universe without his assistance.”
He even died content; for this polished Bohemian had often foreseen that, if he lived long, he should die miserably.