"It's ghastly! That beast——!"
"But you must not despair," continued the doctor in an endeavour to be optimistic. "Madame is strong and healthy. She has a very sound constitution, and in such a case as this it is a most important factor in the recovery. You may rely on me to do my utmost. I have great hopes that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife."
"Mademoiselle," corrected Rivière mechanically.
"Mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow.
"You will come again later to-night?"
"That would serve no useful purpose. I have injected a large dose of morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. I have left full instructions with the Sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she will communicate with me by telephone."
"I have a further question to ask you, doctor. Mademoiselle Verney is alone in Nîmes. She has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been staying at the Hotel de Provence while passing through the town. Would it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or here?"
"Here—decidedly!" answered the doctor. "Mme Giras is kindness itself—I know her well. I recommend that mademoiselle stay here."
Rivière could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured by hopes and fears. The doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but was this mere professional optimism?
Suppose Elaine were blinded for life—blinded on his account. What was she to do for her livelihood? He knew that she was an orphan; that her relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in Paris. Her slender means would soon be exhausted—what was she to do then?