‘Monsieur, have you any hope of saving Monsieur and Madame Crevel?’ Victorin asked Bianchon.
‘I hope to, but have no faith that I shall,’ replied Bianchon. ‘The case is inexplicable to me. The disease is peculiar to negroes and native Americans, whose skin structure is different from that of the white races. But I can’t establish any link between blacks, Red Indians, or half-castes and Monsieur or Madame Crevel. And though it’s a splendid disease for us to study, it’s terrible for everyone else. The poor creature, who, they say, was pretty, is well punished at the source of her sins, for today she is horribly ugly, if she can be said to be anything at all. Her teeth and hair are falling out; she looks like a leper; she’s an object of horror to herself. Her hands look revolting; they are swollen and covered with greenish pustules. Her loosened nails remain in the sores that she scratches. In fact, all the extremities of her body are being destroyed by running ulcers.’
‘But what’s the cause of these afflictions?’ the lawyer asked.
‘Oh,’ said Bianchon, ‘the cause is in a rapid deterioration of the blood; it is decomposing with frightening speed. I hope to do something about the blood. I’ve had it analysed. I’m going home to pick up the result of work done by my friend Professor Duval, the famous chemist, so that I can undertake one of those desperate measures that we sometimes attempt against death.’
‘This is the hand of God,’ said the Baroness, in a tone of deep emotion. ‘Although this woman has done me such harm that, in moments of madness, I have called down divine justice on her head, I wish, God knows, that you may succeed, Doctor.’
Victorin Hulot turned dizzy. He looked at his mother, his sister, and the doctor in turn and trembled lest they should read his thoughts. He looked on himself as a murderer. As for Hortense, she thought God was very just.
Célestine came back to ask her husband to go with her.
‘If you go there, Madame, and you, Monsieur, stay a foot away from the patients’ beds; that’s the only precaution you need take. Neither you nor your wife should think of kissing the dying man. So you should accompany your wife, Monsieur Hulot, to see that she doesn’t break this rule.’
Adeline and Hortense, left alone, went to keep Lisbeth company. Hortense’s hatred of Valérie was so violent that she could not restrain it.
‘Cousin, my brother and I are avenged!’ she cried. ‘That venomous creature must have bitten herself; she’s in a state of decomposition!’
‘Hortense,’ said the Baroness, ‘your behaviour isn’t Christian at this moment. You ought to pray God that he will deign to inspire the unhappy woman with repentance.’
‘What are you saying?’ cried Bette, getting up from her chair. ‘Are you talking of Valérie?’
‘Yes,’ replied Adeline, ‘there’s no hope for her. She’s dying of a horrible disease whose very description makes one shudder.’
Cousin Bette’s teeth chattered; she broke out into a cold sweat; she gave a violent start, which revealed the depth of her passionate attachment to Valérie.
‘I’m going to her,’ she said.
‘But the doctor has forbidden you to go out.’
‘No matter, I’m going. Poor Crevel! What a state he must be in, for he loves his wife.’
‘He’s dying too,’ replied Countess Steinbock. ‘Oh, all our enemies are in the devil’s hands.’
‘In God’s, my child!’
Lisbeth got dressed and put on her famous yellow cashmere shawl, her black velvet hood, and her ankle-boots. Ignoring the remonstrances of Adeline and Hortense, she set off as if impelled by an irresistible force.