It was a mournful sight. The red glare of our torches lit in turn each rock and leafless trunk. Occasionally, at a bend in the road, the wind would almost extinguish this light, and we stopped, lost in darkness. We had called on William Meredith till our voices became so tremulous that we ourselves shuddered at them. I did not dare to look at Eva; in truth I feared she would fall dead before me. At last, at a moment when worn out and discouraged we were moving silently along, Madame Meredith suddenly pushed us aside, and darting forward, sprung across a heap of brush. We followed—as soon as we could raise a torch to distinguish objects, alas! we saw her on her knees beside the body of William; he lay stretched on the ground motionless, his eyes glazed, and his forehead covered with the blood that trickled from a wound on the left side of his head.
“Doctor?” said Eva.
That single word said—does he still live?
I leaned forward and felt his pulse; I put my hand on his heart, and stood silent. Eva had watched every movement I made, but when I continued silent, the awful truth flashed upon her—she spoke no word, she uttered no cry, but fell in a swoon on the dead body of her husband.
“But, ladies,” said Doctor Barnabé, turning to his audience, “see, the sun is shining; you can now go out. Let us leave this mournful story.”
Madame de Moncar drew near the old man; “Doctor,” said she, “pray be good enough to finish. Look at us, and you will not doubt the interest with which we have listened to you.”
And it was so, there were no more smiles of derision on those young faces that were gathered round the village doctor. Perhaps even tears could have been detected in some of their eyes. He resumed his narrative.
Madame Meredith was carried home, and lay for several hours senseless on her bed. I felt that it was at the same time a duty and a cruelty to lavish on her the assistance of my art to recall her to life. I dreaded the heart-rending scenes that would follow this state of immobility; and I bent over her, bathing her temples with cooling water, and anxiously awaiting the grievous, but happy moment when I should see the breath of life issue from her lips. I was deceived in my anticipations, for I had never before seen a terrible misfortune. Eva opened her eyes, and closed them again instantly; the lids were not even moistened by a tear. She lay cold and silent, without motion; and I should have thought her dead, had I not felt her heart begin to throb beneath my hand. How mournful it is to witness a grief we know to be beyond all consolation. I felt that to remain silent seemed a want of pity for this unhappy woman, but that to speak consolingly were not to appreciate the depth of her sorrow. I, who was unable even to soothe her uneasiness—how could I hope to be more eloquent in the face of such an affliction. I adopted the safest plan, that of a complete silence. I said to myself that I would remain and take care of the physical evil; so I stood by her side as a faithful dog would have couched at her feet. My resolution once taken, I was calmer. In the course of a few hours I put a spoonful of a beverage that I deemed necessary to her lips. Eva slowly turned her head to the other side. In a few minutes I again attempted it.
“Drink, madame,” I said; and I gently raised the spoon to her lips, but they continued closed.
“Madame, for your child,” I said, in a low voice.