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.