“Have you no idea of the nature of the poison?” I inquired eagerly.
“None,” he responded. “Ask me no questions now. When we have brought her round will be time enough. It should be sufficient for you to know that she is not dead. Why not leave us for the present? Go and break the good news to the Countess.”
“You wish to be alone?”
“Yes. This is a serious matter. Leave us undisturbed, and on no pretext allow her mother to enter here.”
Thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite perceptible, I left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and sought the Countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned plunged in grief and dark despair.
She was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight before her. The blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead. I well knew how deep was her affection for Yolande, and how tender was her maternal love.
The room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the light. As I entered I did so with her permission, saying quietly:
“Madame, I come to you with a message.”
“From whom?” she asked in a hard mechanical voice.
“From my friend Deane, the English doctor whom I have summoned. Yolande still lives!”