The doctor looked at her again, then wrote a prescription and took his leave, promising to come again early the next morning.
When Virginie was alone, she looked at the prescription and tried to read it.
“Bless my soul!” she muttered, “how badly these doctors write! like cats. ‘Syrup of—infusion of’—No matter, the druggist will understand; this much is clear, that here’s syrups and infusions—consequently, money. Poor Auguste! I’m quite sure he hasn’t any. And I haven’t much more. But never mind—I have got to find some. He gave me enough when he was rich. I must go at once and get whatever he needs.”
Virginie took her purse and went out to buy what was required for the draught the doctor had ordered. She did not amuse herself by babbling with the concierge, but made haste back to her room to nurse the sick man. His fever had changed to delirium; he did not know her, and he seemed to be much worse. Virginie nursed him with redoubled zeal. She succeeded, not without difficulty, in making him take the potion prescribed for him. She did not take one moment’s rest during the night; she was constantly beside the sick-bed, leaving it only to return to her work. Her work was making linen garments, for since her opportunities for pleasure had fallen off, she had realized that in order to live something more was required than fine eyes and a fetching smile. This work brought her but little money; but she redoubled her efforts when she had Auguste to care for.
While she worked, Virginie kept her eyes on the invalid.
“Poor boy!” she would say to herself; “his travels evidently didn’t bring him luck. But how does it happen that good old Bertrand isn’t with him? He must be dead, not to be with Auguste. He was a true friend, he was! not like those popinjays who swindled him! And Denise, who loved him so dearly! If she knew he was in this condition! Suppose I should write to her? But no, that might make Auguste angry; perhaps he’s seen her again, and they’ve had a row; one can never tell! I must cure him first; then he will tell me all his adventures.”
The doctor came the next day, as he had promised; he was unable as yet to give a definite opinion, but he agreed to come again in the evening, and told Virginie to follow the same treatment.
For three days Auguste was very ill. The doctor was not sparing of his visits, and Virginie followed all his prescriptions to the letter. But in the afternoon of the third day she found nothing in her purse, and she had no work ready to carry back. She needed money, however, for a thousand things that her patient must have. Virginie was not at a loss; she took off her bracelets and earrings, the sole relics of the days of her early prosperity, and sold them to a jeweller as gayly as if she were going to a party.
The doctor’s treatment and Virginie’s nursing were not thrown away. On the fourth day Auguste was better; he was no longer delirious and was surprised to find himself in a room which he did not recognize. He pressed Virginie’s hand and would have spoken; but the doctor had prescribed perfect rest, so Virginie said to him:
“Hush! wait till you’re better before you talk; meanwhile, don’t worry about anything; you’re in my room, and I’ll take care of you as well as if you had a dozen black servants. All that I ask you is to drink your medicine like a good boy, and think of nothing but rose-bushes. When you are getting better, I’ll sing as much as you want me to; I’ll even go so far as to dance, if that will amuse you, so as to bring back your spirits.”