Then, accepting with resignation the situation that events had made for her, she occupied herself solely with her beloved little daughter, driving away every thought that was not of those who alone remained dear to her. She saw her husband by chance alone, when it suited him to take his place at table. She spoke no word of reproach to him, and even took no interest in what became of him in his long absences. As she had said to Dumesnil, her love for Paul was dead. The spark from which the flame would have sprung again under the lightest breath of tenderness had died out forever in her.
Alas! the poor lonely one was soon to be stricken in this other love which alone now stirred her soul. Like wolves, misfortunes come in troops. One morning she received from St. Petersburg another letter from her mother which drew a cry of agony from her. Mme. Podoi mentioned baldly that, having had a telegram from Vera Soublaieff that the Prince Alexander was dangerously ill, she was starting for Pampeln with Dr. Psaroff.
Without the loss of a moment Lise dispatched to the daughter of the farmer of Elva a telegram imploring her to send at once, by the same means, news of her son, and this being done, she passed the whole day in unspeakable agony. Toward five o'clock she received Vera's answer, which drove her nearly mad.
"The doctor, who arrived last night with Madame Podoi, refuses to pronounce an opinion, but we hope that God will hear our prayers, and that our care will save your son. I will send a telegram every day."
Mme. Meyrin sunk into a chair, repeating amid her sobs:
Suddenly she rose, ran to her writing-desk, and in a trembling hand wrote:
"Paul, my son is dying. I am going to try and save him."
Having written these words, she rang the bell and told the servant who answered it to put the note in M. Meyrin's room. She had not seen him that day, and knew he was not to be home to dinner; she had heard him say overnight that he was going to the Amiens exhibition.
At this moment Mme. Daubrel entered.