The old woman bent above Elise,
watching intently, her eyes straining, her lips anxiously compressed.
"My son," she said, "she will die in an hour if I don't give her more. If
I do, she may die at once. If she gets well, she will be--" She made a
motion to her eyes.
"Blind, mother, blind!" he whispered, and he looked round the room. How
good was the sight of the eyes! "Perhaps she'd rather die," said the old
woman. "She is unhappy." She was thinking of her own far, bitter past,
remembered now after so many years. "Misery and blindness too--ah! What
right have I to make her blind? It's a great risk, Parpon, my dear son."
"I must, I must, for your sake. Valmond! Valmond! O Valmond!" cried Elise
again out of her delirium.
The stricken girl had answered for Parpon. She had decided for herself.
Life! that was all she prayed for: for another's sake, not her own.
Her own mother slept on, in the corner of the room, unconscious of the
terrible verdict hanging in the balance.
Madame Degardy quickly emptied into a cup of liquor the strange brown
powder, mixed it, and held it to the girl's lips, pouring it slowly down.
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