"I fear not," he replied; "I feel that the end is drawing near."
"You are mistaken, monsieur."
"No! Nature grants us, as a last favor, a presentiment of our approaching end."
"How often have I seen such presentiments disproved!" I returned, smiling.
He gazed fixedly at me, as sick people are wont to do when they are in doubt as to their true condition. It is a trying moment for the doctor; upon his expression depends the moral strength of the sufferer; if the sick man detect the suspicion of a doubt, all is lost; dissolution begins, the soul prepares to quit the body, and the malady holds full sway. I passed firmly through the ordeal; the Count seemed reassured; he pressed my hand again, and released it, calmer and more confident.
During the pause which followed, Odile and Marie Lagoutte entered the room. They must have followed close behind us. They seated themselves in the two chairs which occupied the embrasure of the window, and Marie resumed her knitting, while Odile spread open a portfolio on her lap and seemed to be studying it.
Soon the Count's glance wandered from my face to that of his daughter, whom he continued to regard fixedly for a long time in silence.
This somewhat oppressive quiet continued, broken only by the jarring of the casements, the monotone of the wind, and the sound of the snow as it swirled and whispered against the panes.
After a half hour of this, the Count suddenly began to speak:
"If my beloved child Odile would but grant my request, if she would only consent to let me hope that one day she would fulfil the desire of my heart, I believe that alone would accomplish my recovery!" I glanced quickly at Odile; she had closed her book, and her eyes were fastened on the floor. I noticed that she had become deathly pale.