“Let’s not talk about that.”
“All right; besides, you mustn’t talk much, that’s another of the doctor’s orders.”
“Has anyone been to see me?”
“Not a cat has entered the room except the doctor and the concierge.”
Ernest and his wife could know nothing of my accident; otherwise I was sure that they would have come to take care of me. So henceforth I could have only strangers about me. Ah! if my mother had known—but I was very glad that she had not been informed of the accident, which would have frightened her. There were many other things too which she did not know and which I would have been glad to conceal from her forever.
I tried to rest, but Eugénie’s image often disturbed my sleep.
It was she who was the cause of my being in that bed. It was impossible that she should not have recognized me, for her horse passed close to me; and she did not return! Had she heard the commotion caused by my accident? That I did not know. While I shunned society as if I were guilty, Eugénie was indulging in all forms of pleasure. She, who used to mount a horse only in fear and trepidation, and to ride very quietly, now rode through the Bois de Boulogne at a fast gallop and displayed the rash courage of an experienced horseman! It still seemed to me that I was dreaming, that I was delirious. Since the Eugénie of the old days no longer existed, it seemed to me I must forget the new one, I must think no more of the woman who had wrecked my life.
I believed that, if I could embrace my little Henriette, I should be entirely cured at once. I determined to go to see her before leaving Paris, and to take her in my arms without her mother’s knowledge; and even if her mother should know it, had I not the right to kiss my daughter? I would be patient until then.
The doctor came again to see me. He was a man whom I did not know; he seemed abrupt and cold; he talked little, but he neither made a show of his knowledge nor used long words to his patients. I like doctors of that sort.
After a few days I was much better, and I began to recover my strength. Pettermann was still in my room; he had told me to dismiss him as soon as he annoyed me, and I had kept him. I had become accustomed to his services and attentions. I could not doubt his attachment, for he had given me proofs of it. One especially convincing proof was that he had not drunk too much a single time since he had constituted himself my nurse. It was not selfish interest that guided him, for by refusing my purse when I went up to his room he had proved that he did not care for money. I had noticed also that he was neither prying nor talkative.