“That is well; we will take that.”
Wildly, with precipitate haste, she threw on her clothes, hooking, clasping, tying, and fastening at hap-hazard; then, before the mirror, she lifted and twisted her hair without a semblance of order, gazing without thinking of what she was doing at the reflection of her pale face and haggard eyes.
When her cloak was over her shoulders, she rushed to her husband's room, but he was not yet ready. She dragged him along.
“Come, come!” said she; “remember, he may die!”
The Count, dazed, followed her stumblingly, feeling his way with his feet on the dark stairs, trying to distinguish the steps, so that he should not fall.
The drive was short and silent. The Countess trembled so violently that her teeth rattled, and through the window she saw the flying gas-jets, veiled by the falling rain. The sidewalks gleamed, the Boulevard was deserted, the night was sinister. On arriving, they found that the painter's door was open, and that the concierge's lodge was lighted but empty.
At the top of the stairs the physician, Dr. de Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very well dressed, extremely polite, came to meet them. He bowed low to the Countess and held out his hand to the Count.
She asked him, breathing rapidly as if climbing the stairs had exhausted her and put her out of breath:
“Well, doctor?”
“Well, Madame, I hope that it will be less serious than I thought at first.”