To watch life and death fighting is not a pretty sight. With M. de Cadanet, life slowly got the better; but its wounds and its weaknesses were many, and the old count, rent with the strife, and agonised with the pricks of returning circulation, was a sorry spectacle. He was well nursed, for Amélie was in her element, and gave him her whole attention, always more delightful to a patient than the intelligence which he may wish for in health. She made no demands upon his brain, and his medicine and food were ready at exactly the right hour. Moreover, she was really quick in understanding his imperfect speech. Every day she brought her husband a pleased report that there was a growing improvement. Charles had not the face to frown except behind her back. He said once, sharply:
“All this is very fine; say what you like, but he will never be himself again.”
“Oh, why not?” exclaimed his wife, appealingly. He controlled himself to answer.
“They never are after such an attack, which, of course, weakens the brain.”
“Well, he knows everything, I am sure,” she persisted. Charles was going out of the room, and returned, anxiety in his face.
“What does he talk about?”
“He likes to hear what the doctor has said.”
“He has never alluded to—to Poissy?”
She exclaimed at the idea.
“Oh, he has not come to thinking about things of that sort.”