This spectacle made George shudder. He was regarded not only as a man of acknowledged bravery, but as one whose courage was almost rash. He had braved death a thousand times without sufficient motive, and confronted perils from the very love of danger itself. But this kind of courage has nothing in common with that which enables the eye to look calmly on suffering and death—not of an heroic kind which rouses our enthusiasm, but such as we witness on all beds of sickness, and which awaits us!
Thus beheld, the spectacle excited George’s horror. He turned away with the repugnance of a nature delicate and noble, but perverted by selfish indulgence, and which at all times was more capable of brilliant proofs of devotedness than of obscure sacrifices. Notwithstanding his tender affection for his mother, it is very probable he would not long have endured the painful impression he received, if the dim light which obscured everything had not enabled him to discern the movements and features of her who so efficaciously replaced him at the bedside. He therefore remained where he was, contemplating Fleurange’s calm and simple attitude with admiration. She had already dismissed several women whose services were superfluous, and by degrees re-established order and tranquillity around her. Barbara was still going to and fro, bustling about and giving proofs of her good-will, but unable to disguise the terror she could never overcome when she saw her mistress a prey to these severe attacks. On this account, she did not feel in the least displeased at Fleurange’s intervention, and it was with secret joy she now heard the order for her to retire.
“It is nearly four o’clock,” said Fleurange, looking at the magnificent clock opposite. “She is a little calmer: go and lie down, Barbara.”
“And you, mademoiselle?”
“I? I shall remain here. I shall not stir till seven o’clock. Then the physician will return. After his visit I shall go to bed, and you can take my place.”
This calm and precise order was not one which Barbara wished to hear the second time. She hastened to place an arm-chair near the young girl, and a table with the remedies she might need, and went out without suspecting Fleurange was not entirely alone with her sick mistress.
George hesitated for an instant: to leave Fleurange to watch alone seemed almost cruel; to remain unbeknown to her, almost treacherous. He therefore decided to leave the obscure corner he occupied, and softly approached the bed.
Fleurange, hearing his footsteps, turned quickly around, and began to tremble. The slight noise he made was sufficient to awaken the patient, which caused a renewal of her sufferings, and the spasm from which she had but just rallied became more violent than ever. For some moments George’s presence and aid were not useless, but while she preserved her coolness he lost his, and seemed unable to endure the sight of the suffering he could not lessen.
“Mother! my poor mother!” he cried with anguish, “look at me! give me one look!”
“Try to be calm,” whispered Fleurange, and she added, almost in his ear: “Do not say a word, not one—there must be calmness, and absolute silence.”