"Was she conscious?"
"Yes.Oh, if you knew how she's suffering! I can't bear it.I can't bearit."
His voice rose to a shriek.
"Damn it all, you haven't got to bear it," I cried impatiently."She's gotto bear it."
"How can you be so cruel?" "What have you done?""They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police.I'd given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anythinghappened."
He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was very hard to say.
"When I went she wouldn't speak to me.She told them to send me away.I swore that I forgave her everything, but she wouldn't listen.She tried to beat her head against the wall.The doctor told me that I mustn't remain with her.She kept on saying, `Send him away!' I went, and waited in the studio.And when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher, they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn't know I was there."While I dressed -- for Stroeve wished me to go at once with him to the hospital -- he told me that he had arranged for his wife to have a private room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promiscuity of a ward.On our way he explained to me why he desired my presence; if she still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me.He begged me to repeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her for nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to return to him; she would be perfectly free.
But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerless building, the mere sight of which was enough to make one's heart sick, and after being directed from this official to that, up endless stairs and through long, bare corridors, found the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that the patient was too ill to see anyone that day.The doctor was a little bearded man in white, with an offhand manner.He evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as a nuisance which must be treated with firmness.Moreover, to him the affair was commonplace; it was just an hysterical woman who had quarrelled with her lover and taken poison; it was constantly happening.At first he thought that Dirk was the cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly brusque with him.When I explained that he was the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious, searching eyes.I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery; it was true that Stroeve had the head of the husband who is deceived.The doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.
"There is no immediate danger," he said, in answer to our questioning.
"One doesn't know how much she took.It may be that she will get off with a fright.Women are constantly trying to commit suicide for love, but generally they take care not to succeed.It's generally a gesture to arouse pity or terror in their lover."There was in his tone a frigid contempt.It was obvious that to him Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to the statistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Paris during the current year.He was busy, and could waste no more time on us. He told us that if we came at a certain hour next day, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for her husband to see her.
