The Doctor’s Opinion

BEFORE another word had been exchanged between us, Lucilla entered the room. We looked at each other. If we could have spoken at that moment, I believe we should both have said, “Thank God, she is blind!”

“Have you all forgotten me?” she asked. “Oscar! where are you? What does the doctor say?”

She advanced into the room. In a moment more, she would have stumbled against the prostrate² man still writhing³ on the floor. I laid my hand on her arm, and stopped her.

She suddenly caught my hand in hers. “Why did you tremble,” she asked, “when you took me by the arm? Why are you trembling now?” Her delicate sense of touch was not to be deceived. I vainly denied that anything had happened: my hand had betrayed me. “There is something wrong!” she exclaimed, “Oscar has not answered me.”

The doctor came to my assistance.

“There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said. “Mr. Dubourg is not very well to-day.”

She turned on the doctor, with a sudden burst of anger.

“You are deceiving me!” she cried. “Something serious has happened to him. The truth! tell me the truth! Oh! it’s shameful⁴, it’s heartless of both of you to deceive a wretched blind creature like me!”

The doctor still hesitated. I told her the truth.

“Where is he?” she asked, seizing me by the two shoulders, and shaking me in the violence of her agitation⁵.

I entreated⁶ her to wait a little; I tried to place her in a chair. She pushed me contemptuously away, and went down on the floor on her hands and knees. “I shall find him,” she said to herself; “I shall find him in spite of them!” She began to crawl over the floor, feeling the empty space before her with her hand. It was horrible. I followed her, and raised her again, by main force.

“Don’t struggle with her,” said the doctor. “Let her come here. He is quiet now.”

I looked at Oscar. The worst of it was over. He was

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