"Madame," he said, "I am the surgeon, and I must tell you the truth ... if you are strong enough to bear it?"
"I am strong enough," said Horatia.
"Your husband is dying. He was shot by the Philippistes in the forest about six this evening; he was found an hour later unconscious but alive, and brought here as soon as possible. But—I should be doing you a great injury to deceive you—he cannot live till morning.... Will you see him now?"
"Can't you do anything?" asked Horatia, passionately.
He shook his head. "It is a miracle that he is still alive, Madame—with eight bullet wounds. Madame de Vigerie did not know that you were here; as soon as she heard she sent for you." He paused at the door, and looking at her with the same stern pity, said, "Remember, Madame, if he talks wildly, that he is still in great pain. I have given him what opiates I dared, but they have little effect, I fear. He will know you now, but later on he may become delirious, so that you should see him at once. There is nothing to do; only do not lift him up. I shall be outside the door, within call." He preceded her out of the room.
A priest was going down the stairs—the old curé who had given them his blessing. Where was Madame de Vigerie?
She forgot to think of her when she was inside. Was that really Armand? All the shadows in the big, lofty room seemed centred in his face, so sharp and incredibly grey against the white of the bed-linen. He lay on his back in the great sculptured bed; one pillow only out of its many supported him; the rest had been thrown in a heap on the floor. His eyes were closed; he had only a sheet over him, and under it his motionless body had a sinister rigidity. A table with basins, with cloths and lint trailing over it had been pushed, only half out of sight, behind a curtain, and a chair near it bore his blood-soaked clothes, cast there just as they had been cut off him.
She saw all these details, grasped their full meaning, but had thought only for one thing, and going round the foot of the bed, entered the sanctuary of the screen that kept off the candle-light. Armand's right hand, the fingers twitching a little, lay on the edge of the bed. Horatia fell on her knees beside him.
And Armand opened dark, misty eyes upon her. He seemed to consider for a moment, and then there came about his ashen lips a phantom of the smile that had once charmed her, and he lifted his hand a little way, pointing.
"Your hair ... makes a light," he said faintly. The candles were behind her.