When the specialist had been, on the morrow—when Picq had closed the street door after him, and stumbled up the stairs, in his hurry to rejoin Nanette, and sat down on the bed, with his cheek resting against hers—they did not speak for some seconds.
"Well, well," he brought forth at last, "after all, it is not so bad, what? It is a shock, of course—I own it is a shock; but really, when one comes to think it over——"
She moaned—a child afraid.
"Don't—don't! An operation!"
"Yes, yes, it is a shock; we were hoping for an easy cure. But when all is said, we have learnt there is a cure. If he had told us there was nothing to be done? There is a cure! And you will feel nothing, mignonne—you will feel no pain at all. And afterwards, when you lie there at peace—so comfortable in the knowledge that all the misery is over—I shall come every day and bring you flowers. And every day I shall find you brighter and stronger. Upon my word, I would not mind making a bet that, in looking back at it, you remember it as a happy time."
Big tears were on her frightened face.
"And it is Jean's birthday," she wailed.
"Yes, it is unfortunate. It cannot be helped. Well, we shall have our fête when you come home instead, and—listen, listen! We will drink his health at a restaurant—we will make up for the delay. To the devil with the cost! When you come home cured, we will have a swagger supper out, to celebrate the double event. Nanette—it is useless to expostulate—I register a vow that this time we will squander a couple of louis on a supper on the Boulevard. And you shall put on your pink silk dress!"
"Petit bonhomme, wilt thou do me a favour?" she whimpered.