“Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge.  Be kind to that family to whom I have left by my will everything I can dispose of.  Go, child, though you are the only creature who, at this hour, does not avoid me with horror—­go, I beseech you, and leave me.—­I have only time to make my peace with God!”

“She is wandering in her wits,” said Lisbeth to herself, as she left the room.

The strongest affection known, that of a woman for a woman, had not such heroic constancy as the Church.  Lisbeth, stifled by the miasma, went away.  She found the physicians still in consultation.  But Bianchon’s opinion carried the day, and the only question now was how to try the remedies.

“At any rate, we shall have a splendid post-mortem,” said one of his opponents, “and there will be two cases to enable us to make comparisons.”

Lisbeth went in again with Bianchon, who went up to the sick woman without seeming aware of the malodorous atmosphere.

“Madame,” said he, “we intend to try a powerful remedy which may save you—­”

“And if you save my life,” said she, “shall I be as good-looking as ever?”

“Possibly,” said the judicious physician.

“I know your possibly,” said Valerie.  “I shall look like a woman who has fallen into the fire!  No, leave me to the Church.  I can please no one now but God.  I will try to be reconciled to Him, and that will be my last flirtation; yes, I must try to come round God!”

“That is my poor Valerie’s last jest; that is all herself!” said Lisbeth in tears.

Lisbeth thought it her duty to go into Crevel’s room, where she found Victorin and his wife sitting about a yard away from the stricken man’s bed.

“Lisbeth,” said he, “they will not tell me what state my wife is in; you have just seen her—­how is she?”

“She is better; she says she is saved,” replied Lisbeth, allowing herself this play on the word to soothe Crevel’s mind.

“That is well,” said the Mayor.  “I feared lest I had been the cause of her illness.  A man is not a traveler in perfumery for nothing; I had blamed myself.—­If I should lose her, what would become of me?  On my honor, my children, I worship that woman.”

He sat up in bed and tried to assume his favorite position.

“Oh, Papa!” cried Celestine, “if only you could be well again, I would make friends with my stepmother—­I make a vow!”

“Poor little Celestine!” said Crevel, “come and kiss me.”

Victorin held back his wife, who was rushing forward.

“You do not know, perhaps,” said the lawyer gently, “that your disease is contagious, monsieur.”

“To be sure,” replied Crevel.  “And the doctors are quite proud of having rediscovered in me some long lost plague of the Middle Ages, which the Faculty has had cried like lost property—­it is very funny!”

“Papa,” said Celestine, “be brave, and you will get the better of this disease.”