“Can nothing be done?”
“My dear friend, she is to all intents and purposes dead. She has been dying some time—probably since yesterday.”
“Ah, I hear you say all that; you say she is dead. I have never heard a thing like that before so frightful. I have heard of doctors keeping people alive. Well, then, look: it is not the question of payment; it is not a question of one, two, three napoleons, but thousands! You are not speaking to a fool; I am a great painter. I have only to close my hands on the money, and half of what I earn is yours. I am Gustave Garnier; I never told a lie. Ask Melmenotte what I can do.”
“My dear friend,” sighed Dr. Fénélon, “I would save her for nothing, but I am not God.”
“Nothing can be done?”
“Nothing.”
“Brandy?”
“I would not trouble her with brandy—it might even put the flame out; she is just trembling;” and he held out his hand, imitating the motion of a butterfly poised.
“How long?”