“He will be back very soon, my little Célestin,” said Garnier, as he stood beside the bed, smiling down upon the patient. “Mon Dieu! my poor child, how blue your lips have become, even within so short a time. Say to me, Célestin, how you feel.”
“I feel choking,” murmured Célestin, with a terrible look of appeal, as though she had but that moment recognized the extent of her illness with the fact that Toto had gone out.
Garnier made a little dramatic back-step, which he corrected by folding his hands loosely in front of him and rubbing them slightly one upon the other as if nothing was the matter. The frightful truth suddenly broke upon him that Célestin, his little Célestin, was terribly ill.
“I feel choking—it is terrible—my friend.”
“Oh, yes,” said Garnier, dropping beside her on his knees. “What is it? You frighten me. Have you pain? Speak, Célestin, and tell me.”
“Oh, no pain, but I cannot breathe. Stay, I am better now—the weight has gone a bit; but it will come back. I am afraid to die; what will he do? I would have worked for him; but it is no use—I cannot if I am dead. And he was in trouble; I could see it on his face. We are so poor, you know.”
Garnier felt horrified, paralyzed in the knees and unable to move.
“What is this you say? what is this you say?” he murmured.
“Is it raining?”
“Oh, no, it is very fine. What is this I hear you say, Célestin? Are you very ill? It is bright sunshine outside; there is no rain.”