You may rely on me to do my utmost. I have great hopes
that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife."
"Mademoiselle," corrected Riviere mechanically.
"Mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow.
"You will come again later to-night?"
"That would serve no useful purpose. I have injected a large dose of
morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. I have left full
instructions with the Sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she
will communicate with me by telephone."
"I have a further question to ask you, doctor. Mademoiselle Verney is
alone in Nimes. She has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been
staying at the Hotel de Provence while passing through the town. Would
it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or
here?"
"Here--decidedly!" answered the doctor. "Mme Giras is kindness itself--I
know her well. I recommend that mademoiselle stay here."
Riviere could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured
by hopes and fears. The doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but
was this mere professional optimism?
Suppose Elaine were blinded for life--blinded on his account. What was
she to do for her livelihood? He knew that she was an orphan; that her
relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her
throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in Paris. Her
slender means would soon be exhausted--what was she to do then?
With overwhelming conviction Riviere saw the inevitable solution.
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