"Where did it happen?" she inquired.
"I do not know exactly," he answered in a very low voice; "it was far away from here."
The physician rolled up an armchair, and the Countess sank into it. The Count remained standing at the foot of the bed, repeating between his teeth: "Oh, my poor friend! my poor friend! What a frightful misfortune!"
And he was indeed deeply grieved, for he loved Olivier very much.
"But where did it happen?" the Countess repeated.
"I know hardly anything about it myself, or rather I do not understand it at all," the physician replied. "It was at the Gobelins, almost outside of Paris! At least, the cabman that brought him home declared to me that he took him in at a pharmacy of that quarter, to which someone had carried him, at nine o"clock in the evening!" Then, leaning toward Olivier, he asked: "Did the accident really happen near the Gobelins?"
Bertin closed his eyes, as if to recollect; then murmured: "I do not know."
"But where were you going?"
"I do not remember now. I was walking straight before me."
A groan that she could not stifle came from the Countess"s lips; then oppressed with a choking that stopped her breathing a few seconds, she drew out her handkerchief, covered her eyes, and wept bitterly.
She knew--she guessed! Something intolerable, overwhelming had just fallen on her heart--remorse for not keeping Olivier near her, for driving him away, for throwing him into the street, where, stupefied with grief, he had fallen under the omnibus.
He said in that colorless voice he now had: "Do not weep. It distresses me."
By a tremendous effort of will, she ceased to sob, uncovered her eyes and fixed them, wide open, upon him, without a quiver of her face, whereon the tears continued slowly to roll down.
They looked at each other, both motionless, their hands clasped under the coverlet. They gazed at each other, no longer knowing that any other person was in the room; and that gaze carried a superhuman emotion from one heart to the other.
They gazed upon each other, and the need of talking, unheard, of hearing the thousand intimate things, so sad, which they had still to say, rose irresistibly to their lips. She felt that she must at any price send away the two men that stood behind her; she must find a way, some ruse, some inspiration, she, the woman, fruitful in resources! She began to reflect, her eyes always fixed on Olivier.
Her husband and the doctor were talking in undertones, discussing the care to be given. Turning her head the Countess said to the doctor: "Have you brought a nurse?"
"No, I prefer to send a hospital surgeon, who will keep a better watch over the case."
"Send both. One never can be too careful. Can you still get them to-night, for I do not suppose you will stay here till morning?"
"Indeed, I was just about to go home. I have been here four hours already."
"But on your way back you will send us the nurse and the surgeon?"
"It will be difficult in the middle of the night. But I shall try."
"You must!"
"They may promise, but will they come?"
"My husband will accompany you and will bring them back either willingly or by force."
"You cannot remain here alone, Madame!"
"I?" she exclaimed with a sort of cry of defiance, of indignant protest against any resistance to her will. Then she pointed out, in that authoritative tone to which no one ventures a reply, the necessities of the situation. It was necessary that the nurse and the surgeon should be there within an hour, to forestall all accident. To insure this, someone must get out of bed and bring them. Her husband alone could do that.
During this time she would remain near the injured man, she, for whom it was a duty and a right. She would thereby simply fulfil her role of friend, her role of woman. Besides, this was her will, and no one should dissuade her from it.
Her reasoning was sensible. They could only agree upon that, and they decided to obey her.
She had risen, full of the thought of their departure, impatient to know that they were off and that she was left alone. Now, in order that she should commit no error during their absence, she listened, trying to understand perfectly, to remember everything, to forget nothing of the physician"s directions. The painter"s valet, standing near her, listened also, and behind him his wife, the cook, who had helped in the first binding of the patient, indicated by nods of the head that she too understood. When the Countess had recited all the instructions like a lesson, she urged the two men to go, repeating to her husband:
"Return soon, above all things, return soon!"
"I will take you in my coupe," said the doctor to the Count. "It will bring you back quicker. You will be here again in an hour."
Before leaving, the doctor again carefully examined the wounded man, to a.s.sure himself that his condition remained satisfactory.
Guilleroy still hesitated.
"You do not think that we are doing anything imprudent?" he asked.
"No," said the doctor. "He needs only rest and quiet. Madame de Guilleroy will see that he does not talk, and will speak to him as little as possible."
The Countess was startled, and said:
"Then I must not talk to him?"
"Oh, no, Madame! Take an armchair and sit beside him. He will not feel that he is alone and will be quite content; but no fatigue of words, or even of thoughts. I will call about nine o"clock to-morrow morning.
Good-bye, Madame. I salute you!"
He left the room with a low bow, followed by the Count who repeated:
"Do not worry yourself, my dear. Within an hour I shall return, and then you can go home."
When they were gone, she listened for the sound of the door below being closed, then to the rolling wheels of the coupe in the street.
The valet and the cook still stood there, awaiting orders. The Countess dismissed them.
"You may go now," said she; "I will ring if I need anything."
They too withdrew, and she remained alone with him.
She had drawn quite near to the bed, and putting her hands on the two edges of the pillow, on both sides of that dear face, she leaned over to look upon it. Then, with her face so close to his that she seemed to breathe her words upon it, she whispered:
"Did you throw yourself under that carriage?"
He tried to smile still, saying: "No, it was _that_ which threw itself upon me."
"That is not true; it was you."
"No, I swear to you it was _it_!"
After a few moments of silence, those instants when souls seem mingled in glances, she murmured: "Oh, my dear, dear Olivier, to think that I let you go, that I did not keep you with me!"