“Yes—one man’s work.”
Georges Clemenceau smiled.
“He was very much in love. God forbid that this should end unhappily.”
A little human murmur rose from the crowd, a pleasant sound such as animals make when their young run to them for milk. The doctor was smiling behind his glasses, for Brent had opened his eyes. He raised a hand and touched Manon, a Manon whose face had suddenly lost the calm of tragedy and was like broken light, quivering, tenderly shaken. She began to weep—tears of quiet emotion.
“Oh, mon chérie!”
Paul looked up at her and nothing else.
“They have not hurt you?”
“No, no.”
The doctor patted her shoulder and continued to watch Brent.
“I do not think he is going to die, madame.”