“But look what I have come to,” said Valerie.
“And where did you get this gangrene?” asked the old maid, unmoved from her peasant incredulity.
“I had a letter from Henri which leaves me in no doubt as to my fate. He has murdered me. And—just when I meant to live honestly—to die an object of disgust!
“Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge. Be kind to that family to whom I have left by my will everything I can dispose of. Go, child, though you are the only creature who, at this hour, does not avoid me with horror—go, I beseech you, and leave me.—I have only time to make my peace with God!”
“She is wandering in her wits,” said Lisbeth to herself, as she left the room.
The strongest affection known, that of a woman for a woman, had not such heroic constancy as the Church. Lisbeth, stifled by the miasma, went away. She found the physicians still in consultation. But Bianchon’s opinion carried the day, and the only question now was how to try the remedies.
“At any rate, we shall have a splendid post-mortem,” said one of his opponents, “and there will be two cases to enable us to make comparisons.”
Lisbeth went in again with Bianchon, who went up to the sick woman without seeming aware of the malodorous atmosphere.
“Madame,” said he, “we intend to try a powerful remedy which may save you—”
“And if you save my life,” said she, “shall I be as good-looking as ever?”