"But I was always jealous—of you. You drew better—than I did. That made me miserable."
After a long pause, during which he gave her some of the prepared stimulant Ramsay had left ready, she spoke again, with rather more vigour.
"Do you remember—that Artists' Fête—in the Bois—when I went as
Primavera—Botticelli's Primavera?"
"Perfectly."
"I was as handsome then—as that girl you were rowing. And now—But I don't want to die!"—she said with sudden anguish—"Why should I die? I was quite well a fortnight ago. Why does that doctor frighten me so?" She tried to sit more erect, panting for breath. He did his best to soothe her, to induce her to go back to bed. But she resisted with all her remaining strength; instead, she drew him down to her.
"Tell me!—confess to me!"—she said hoarsely—"Madame de Chaville was your mistress!"
"Never! Calm yourself, poor Anna! I swear to you. Won't you believe me?"
She trembled violently. "If I left you—for nothing—"
She closed her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks.
He bent over her—"Won't you rest now—and let them take you back to bed?
You mustn't talk like this any more. You will kill yourself."