The countess half lay, her body bent forwards, her arms hanging, in a soiled armchair in a room that was like the lair of a wild boar. The next evening before the doctor departed he said to the countess, who had sat up the night before, that she must get a nurse, as the illness would be a long one.
“A nurse!” she said; “no, no! We will take care of him,” she added, looking at me; “we owe it to ourselves to save him.”
The doctor gave us both an observing look full of astonishment. The words were of a nature to make him suspect an atonement. He promised to come twice a week, left directions for the treatment with Monsieur Deslandes, and pointed out the threatening symptoms that might oblige us to send for him. I asked the countess to let me sit up the alternate nights and then, not without difficulty, I persuaded her to go to bed on the third night. When the house was still and the count sleeping I heard a groan from Henriette’s room. My anxiety was so keen that I went to her. She was kneeling before the crucifix bathed in tears. “My God!” she cried; “if this be the cost of a murmur, I will never complain again.”
“You have left him!” she said on seeing me.
“I heard you moaning, and I was frightened.”
“Oh, I!” she said; “I am well.”
Wishing to be certain that Monsieur de Mortsauf was asleep she came down with me; by the light of the lamp we looked at him. The count was weakened by the loss of blood and was more drowsy than asleep; his hands picked the counterpane and tried to draw it over him.
“They say the dying do that,” she whispered. “Ah! if he were to die of this illness, that I have caused, never will I marry again, I swear it,” she said, stretching her hand over his head with a solemn gesture.
“I have done all I could to save him,” I said.
“Oh, you!” she said, “you are good; it is I who am guilty.”