Victorin felt dizzy. He looked at his mother, his sister, and the physician by turns, quaking lest they should read his thoughts. He felt himself a murderer.
Hortense, for her part, thought God was just.
Celestine came back to beg her husband to accompany her.
“If you insist on going, madame, and you too, monsieur, keep at least a foot between you and the bed of the sufferer, that is the chief precaution. Neither you nor your wife must dream of kissing the dying man. And, indeed, you ought to go with your wife, Monsieur Hulot, to hinder her from disobeying my injunctions.”
Adeline and Hortense, when they were left alone, went to sit with Lisbeth. Hortense had such a virulent hatred of Valerie that she could not contain the expression of it.
“Cousin Lisbeth,” she exclaimed, “my mother and I are avenged! that venomous snake is herself bitten—she is rotting in her bed!”
“Hortense, at this moment you are not a Christian. You ought to pray to God to vouchsafe repentance to this wretched woman.”
“What are you talking about?” said Betty, rising from her couch. “Are you speaking of Valerie?”
“Yes,” replied Adeline; “she is past hope—dying of some horrible disease of which the mere description makes one shudder——”
Lisbeth’s teeth chattered, a cold sweat broke out all over her; the violence of the shock showed how passionate her attachment to Valerie had been.