Every afternoon Georges must take a sea-bath, or, rather, he must dip himself for a second in the sea.
Then his whole body must be rubbed vigorously with a hair-glove, to stimulate the circulation; then he must be obliged to drink a glass of old port; and then he must lie stretched for at least an hour in a very warm bed.
That is what I want of you in the first place, my child.
But understand me well; what I specially want is youth, grace, gaiety, life.
In my house it is these things that are most lacking. I have two very devoted servants, but they are old and sad, and possessed of manias. Georges cannot endure them. And I myself, with my old white head and my perpetual wearing of mourning,—I feel that I am an affliction to him.
And, what is worse still, I feel also that I often am unable to hide from him my apprehensions. Oh! I know that this, perhaps, is not exactly the role for a young girl like you, beside so young a boy as Georges; for he is only nineteen!
The world undoubtedly will find something to say about it.
But I care not for the world; I care only for my sick grandchild, and I have confidence in you. You are a good woman, I suppose?"
"Oh! yes, Madame," I cried, certain in advance of being the sort of saint of whom this disconsolate grandmother was in search, for the salvation of her child.
"And he, the poor little one, my God!
In his condition! In his condition, you see, he needs, more than sea-baths perhaps, the continual companionship of a pretty face, a fresh young laugh, something to drive from his mind the idea of death, some one to give him confidence in life. Will you undertake it?"
"I accept, Madame," I answered, moved to the depths of my being.
"And Madame may be sure that I will take good care of M. Georges."
It was agreed that I should enter upon my duties that very evening, and that we should start on the next day but one for Houlgate, where the lady in mourning had rented a beautiful villa near the beach.
The grandmother had not lied.
M. Georges was a charming, an adorable child.
His beardless face had the loveliness of that of a beautiful woman; womanly also were his indolent movements, and his long, white, supple hands, through which could be seen the network of his veins.
But what ardent eyes!
Pupils consumed by a dull fire, beneath eyelids ringed with blue, and seemingly burned by the flaming gaze! What an intense focus of thought, of passion, of sensibility, of intelligence, of inner life!
And to what an extent already had the red flowers of death invaded his cheeks! It seemed as if it were not of disease, as if it were not of death, that he was dying, but of an excess of life, of the fever of life that was in him, gnawing at his organs and withering his flesh.
Oh! how pretty and how painful a spectacle!
When his grandmother took me to him, he was stretched on a long chair, and holding in his long white hands an odorless rose. He received me, not as a servant, but almost as a friend whom he expected.
And from the first moment I became attached to him with all the strength of my soul.
Our establishment at Houlgate was effected without incident, as our journey had been also.
Everything was ready, when we arrived.
We had only to take possession of the villa,—a roomy, elegant villa, full of life and gaiety, and separated from the beach by a broad terrace covered with wicker-chairs and tents of many colors.
A stone stairway, cut in the embankment, led to the sea, and against its lower steps sounded the music of the waves when the tide was coming in.
M. Georges's room, on the ground floor, commanded an admirable view of the sea from large bay-windows.
My own room—not the room of a servant, but that of a master—was opposite M. Georges's, across a passage-way, and was hung with light cretonne. From its windows one looked out into a little garden, where were growing some sorry-looking spindle-trees and some sorrier-looking rose-bushes.
To express in words my joy, my pride, my emotion, and the pure and new elevation of mind that I felt at being thus treated and petted, admitted, like a lady, to comfort, to luxury, and to a share in that thing so vainly coveted which is called the family; to explain how, by a simple wave of the wand of that miraculous fairy, kindness, there came instantly an end to the recollection of my past humiliations and a conception of all the duties laid upon me by the dignity that belongs to a human being, and at last vouchsafed to me,—is quite beyond me.
But I can say at least that I really perceived the magic of the transfiguration.
Not only did the mirror testify that I had suddenly become more beautiful, but my heart assured me that I was really better.
I discovered within me sources, sources, sources,—inexhaustible sources, ever-flowing sources, of devotion, of sacrifice, of heroism; and I had but one thought,—to save, by intelligent care, by watchful fidelity, and by marvellous skill,—to save M. Georges from death.
With a robust faith in my power of cure, I said in positive tones to the poor grandmother, who was in a state of perpetual despair, and often spent her days in weeping in the adjoining room:
"Do not weep, Madame. We will save him. I swear to you that we will save him."
And, in fact, at the end of a fortnight's time, M. Georges was much improved.
A great change in his condition had taken place.
The fits of coughing had diminished in number and intensity; his sleep and appetite were becoming more regular.
He no longer had, in the night, those copious and terrible sweats that left him gasping and exhausted in the morning.
His strength was so far recovered that we could take long drives and short walks, without serious fatigue. It was a sort of resurrection.
As the weather was very fine, and the air very warm, but tempered by the sea-breeze, on days when we did not leave the premises we spent most of the time on the terrace, in the shelter of the tents, awaiting the bathing hour,—the hour of "the little dip in the sea," as M. Georges gaily called it.
For he was gay, always gay; never did he speak of his illness, never of death. I really believe that in all those days he never once uttered the terrible word death.
On the other hand, he was much amused by my chatter, provoking it if necessary; and I, confiding in his eyes, reassured by his heart, won by his indulgence and his grace, told him everything that came into my mind,—farces, follies, and songs. My little childhood, my little desires, my little misfortunes, and my dreams, and my rebellions, and my various experiences with ludicrous or infamous masters,—I told him all, without much masking of the truth, for, young though he was, and separated from the world, and shut up as he had always been, he nevertheless, by a sort of prescience, by a marvelous divination which the sick possess, understood life thoroughly.
A real friendship, that his nature surely facilitated, and that his solitude caused him to desire, and, above all, that the intimate and constant care with which I delighted his poor moribund flesh brought about, so to speak, automatically, sprang up between us.
I was happy to a degree that I cannot picture, and my mind gained in refinement by incessant contact with his.
M. Georges adored poetry.
For entire hours, on the terrace, to the music of the waves, or else at night in his room, he asked me to read him the poems of Victor Hugo, of Baudelaire, of Verlaine, of M?terlinck.
Often he closed his eyes, and lay motionless, with his hands folded on his breast, and I, thinking that he was asleep, stopped reading; but he smiled, and said:
"Go on, little one; I am not asleep.
I can listen better so.