“You see,” said the doctor, “I told you the truth.”
“Poor woman!” sighed Noel, “does she suffer?”
“Not at present.”
The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed.
“Doctor,” said she: “all is ready.”
“Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to apply a mustard poultice.”
The servant hastened in. In the arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a corpse, whom they were dressing for the last time. She was as rigid as though she were dead. She must have suffered much and long, poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was. The nun herself was affected, although she had become habituated to the sight of suffering. How many invalids had breathed their last in her arms during the fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!
Noel, during this time, had retired into the window recess, and pressed his burning brow against the panes.
Of what was he thinking, while she who had given him so many proofs of maternal tenderness and devotion was dying a few paces from him? Did he regret her? was he not thinking rather of the grand and magnificent existence which awaited him on the other side of the river, at the Faubourg St. Germain? He turned abruptly round on hearing his friend’s voice.
“It is done,” said the doctor; “we have only now to wait the effect of the mustard. If she feels it, it will be a good sign; if it has no effect, we will try cupping.”