Strong as Death

“Oh, then it would be serious.”

“He might die of them?”

“Yes.”

“Very soon?”

“Very soon. In a few minutes or even seconds. But reassure yourself, Madame; I am convinced that he will be quite well again in two weeks.”

She had listened, with profound attention, to know all and understand all.

“What laceration might he have?”

“A laceration of the liver, for instance.”

“That would be very dangerous?”

“Yes – but I should be surprised to find any complication now. Let us go to him. It will do him good, for he awaits you with great impatience.”

On entering the room she saw first a pale face on a white pillow. Some candles and the firelight illumined it, defined the profile, deepened the shadows; and in that pale face the Countess saw two eyes that watched her coming.

All her courage, energy, and resolution fell, so much did those hollow and altered features resemble those of a dying man. He, whom she had seen only a little while ago, had become this thing, this specter! “Oh, my God!” she murmured between her teeth, and she approached him, palpitating with horror.

He tried to smile, to reassure her, and the grimace of that attempt was frightful.

When she was beside the bed, she put both hands gently on one of Olivier’s, which lay along his body, and stammered: “Oh, my poor friend!”

“It is nothing,” said he, in a low tone, without moving his head.

She now looked at him closely, frightened at the change in him. He was so pale that he seemed no longer to have a drop of blood under his skin. His hollow cheeks seemed to have been sucked in from the interior of his face, and his eyes were sunken as if drawn by a string from within.

He saw the terror of his friend, and sighed: “Here I am in a fine state!”

“How did it happen?” she asked, looking at him with fixed gaze.

He was making a great effort to speak, and his whole face twitched with pain.

“I was not looking about me – I was thinking of something else – something very different – oh, yes! – and an omnibus knocked me down and ran over my abdomen.”

As she listened she saw the accident, and shaking with terror, she asked: “Did you bleed?”

“No. I am only a little bruised – a little crushed.”

“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: