‘Not that, Laurent!’ cried Paul, with a gesture the other was swift to interpret.
The doctor left the room with a meaningless, friendly tap on Paul’s shoulder, and came back a few instants later with a bottle of brandy.
‘I insist,’ he said commandingly, in answer to Paul’s rejecting wave of the hand.
When Laurent insisted there were few people who said him nay, and Paul took the potion which was poured out for him.
He could remember it all, from this point onward, as if he had been a mere disinterested spectator of the scene. He could see his own figure straightening itself mechanically in the chair in which it sat. He could see himself mechanically throwing one leg over another, and assuming an attitude of indifference and ease. He could see himself distinctly in the act of knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the grate; in the refilling and lighting of it; in the numberless little gestures which seemed to indicate an entire possession of himself And all the while something was booming in his mind as if the word ‘lost ‘were only half articulated there—a scarcely uttered word that carried doom with it.
‘I do not know,’ said Laurent, speaking, for a man of his experience and authority, rather brokenly—‘I do not know whether it was my duty to have spoken earlier. I have not known you very long; but we have learned to like each other, and I would have done you the service to tell you what I knew a month or two ago if I could have found the courage. But I will ask you to believe that I was much perplexed, and that I could not resolve in my own mind whether or not you knew already. It would have seemed a cruel thing to intrude upon such a secret.’
‘Yes,’ said Paul, breaking silence for the first time since he had entered the house, ‘I understand that’ He pulled gravely at his pipe, and sipped again at the glass Laurent had poured out for him. ‘What’s going to be done?’ he asked; and then, with a sudden petulance, ‘What have I got to do?’
‘In a patient so young,’ said Laurent, ‘unless there is some hereditary taint to combat, there should be no impossibility in establishing a cure. What of Madame Armstrong’s heredity?’ What did Paul know of Madame Armstrong’s heredity? Save for a casual glimpse of her sister, who had seemed to him as commonplace as candle-light, he had no knowledge of any person of her name or family. He sat silent, not knowing how to express his ignorance without compromising Annette and himself. But Laurent pressed him.
‘Do you know of anything,’ he asked, ‘which should make the task of cure difficult?’ And, being thus pressed, there seemed nothing for it but for Paul to say that he knew nothing. ‘Then,’ said Laurent, ‘we must not despair. I have already spoken to your wife, and have pointed out to her the very serious nature of her danger, and she has promised me amendment. With what result,’ he added, throwing his arms abroad, ‘you see.’
‘You think it a serious danger? Paul asked him.