“But none of those things can be the case with Mme. Cernay.”
Before making his point definite, the doctor seemed to stop and meditate.
“Moral suffering, continued unrest and complete lack of mental repose, can produce a similar result,” he ended by telling me. “The slow wasting away which one sometimes finds with unhappiness requires a highly wrought sensibility. But that realm is closed to my investigation.”
And, stopping short, he wrote a prescription; he advised the quiet of the country, talked of the unexpected reserves of her youth, mitigated at a rather late hour the severity of his verdict, promised to return, and took his leave.
As soon as he had gone, my spirit began to rebel against him. His inability to define Raymonde’s illness drove him to exaggerate it. He was falling back on those old-fashioned methods that attribute all our ills to internal rather than external causes. I sent a telegram after him, asking him to call in consultation a certain specialist whose name had been made famous by the enthusiasm of a social clientèle.
It was important to reassure Raymonde absolutely, I thought. Before rejoining her, I considered some means to this end. We had been asked to Mme. de Saunois’ that very evening: I would go, so that she might not think I was hiding anything. Yet the hope of meeting Mme. de H— there, was not that something hidden?
As I reached this decision, I heard echoing like a refrain, the hard words of Dr. Aynaud: “She is lost.” I recoiled from them. In order to overcome my scruples, I reviewed all the reassuring symptoms—the doctor’s final words, which had been less positive and less despondent, Raymonde’s youth, her health, and our long walks in the old days, the absence of any definite malady, especially the benefit that might be gained from improvement in her mental condition.
Gaining some courage at last, I went to her room, and, composing myself, proceeded to endow the doctor with optimistic opinions that he had not held. It was a question of diet, rest and departure for the Sleeping Woods, as soon as the season would permit, I said. As I spoke, she looked at me as she had looked the day that I found fault with her for repulsing Pierre Ducal. Her eyes troubled me in the same way. The light tone I had adopted rang false, she knew. Ill as she was I was provoked at her for pointing out my own hypocrisy by the sheer limpidity of her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” I went on. “The nurse is here. I’ll bring her in before I leave. You will have a quiet night.”
“You are going out?”