body filled with two counter poisons, her blood heavy with salt water. They are denying her gesture, dragging her against her will, bringing her back by force, feeble and unworthy, to the bosom of what she had tried to respect.
‘Marie, my friend, my sister, stick up for me … Let me keep the only real gesture I have ever made in my whole life.’ Marie’s heart beats faster; for the first time since she has come into the bedroom her face loses its impassivity. The doctor raises his eyes to hers: ‘How much more is there?’
Marie lowers the injecting tube and looks at it. ‘About a litre.’
‘Let’s carry on, then.’
He leans towards Claudine again, to check her eyes and her pulse, to apply a little massage to the swelling in her thigh. He is alert to the tiniest signs given out by this body, to what is left of its life: he wants to open up this remainder, to preserve and increase it. In one leap Marie’s heart takes its place again, next to this man, in the attempt to save her sister’s body.
There is still life there, do you hear me? I don’t want to see you dead, even if your face is at peace. I don’t want to admireyou in death, because there is nothing great in death when whatever preceded it was even less. I don’t want to defend you, I can’t save you in death. You must see, Claudine, my sister, my friend – I’m on the side of life …
‘The level of the water is going down: lift it a bit higher,’ the doctor said.
Marie raises both hands again, above her head: they are so cold and stiff that they can no longer feel the weight of the receptacle. From her uplifted arms all feeling has gone; pain has become a fixture. Her heart is now beating quite regularly and her face, so pale today, has resumed its fixed, implacable look.
The water flows with infinite slowness, and it will perhaps take as long for Claudine’s life to return. Perhaps her life will return as gently as this.
NIGHT FALLS EARLY at this time of year; even though it was only three o’clock, it was already getting dark. Marie drew the curtains and lit the lamps. ‘There’s nothing more I can do for the moment,’ the doctor said. ‘Little by little she’ll begin to wake up. This evening I’ll come back.’
He had picked up his instruments from the table and was packing his bag. Marie asked: ‘How did you find out what she had taken?’
Fumbling in his pocket he pulled out two glass phials and threw them on to the table. ‘I found these at the back of the fireplace. They always hide them there, in the ashes.’
As he left the room he added: ‘Above all don’t leave her. If she goes completely still, you know what to do.’
Marie went back into the bedroom to find Armand with one hand on Claudine’s inert arm; with the other hand he was holding the two glass phials left behind by the doctor and looking at them uncertainly. ‘Do you have any idea, Marie, why she would do a thing like that?’
‘Do a thing like that?’ Marie repeated his words with a sad smile. ‘That’ encompassed so many things, including Armand himself.
He was completely exhausted with worry and incomprehension. Marie spoke to him briefly, to reassure him, then sent him to lie down in a nearby room.
She sat on the edge of the bed to watch over her sister as the doctor had recommended. At times Claudine’s head would move gently, a little to the right and then a little to the left, or she would attempt to move and let her hand fall, or her whole body would be seized by trembling. The first time she went totally still, for several long moments, Marie shook her by the shoulders, repeating, ‘Claudine! Claudine!’ Then, since she still wasn’t moving, she reached towards the hot, red cheeks and slapped them, gently. As if explaining her actions, she said to her several times: ‘You mustn’t sleep; you mustn’t …’ Then she hit her harder and harder, bravely, for several minutes.
It was time, now, that flowed with such infinite
‘Marie, my friend, my sister, stick up for me … Let me keep the only real gesture I have ever made in my whole life.’ Marie’s heart beats faster; for the first time since she has come into the bedroom her face loses its impassivity. The doctor raises his eyes to hers: ‘How much more is there?’
Marie lowers the injecting tube and looks at it. ‘About a litre.’
‘Let’s carry on, then.’
He leans towards Claudine again, to check her eyes and her pulse, to apply a little massage to the swelling in her thigh. He is alert to the tiniest signs given out by this body, to what is left of its life: he wants to open up this remainder, to preserve and increase it. In one leap Marie’s heart takes its place again, next to this man, in the attempt to save her sister’s body.
There is still life there, do you hear me? I don’t want to see you dead, even if your face is at peace. I don’t want to admireyou in death, because there is nothing great in death when whatever preceded it was even less. I don’t want to defend you, I can’t save you in death. You must see, Claudine, my sister, my friend – I’m on the side of life …
‘The level of the water is going down: lift it a bit higher,’ the doctor said.
Marie raises both hands again, above her head: they are so cold and stiff that they can no longer feel the weight of the receptacle. From her uplifted arms all feeling has gone; pain has become a fixture. Her heart is now beating quite regularly and her face, so pale today, has resumed its fixed, implacable look.
The water flows with infinite slowness, and it will perhaps take as long for Claudine’s life to return. Perhaps her life will return as gently as this.
NIGHT FALLS EARLY at this time of year; even though it was only three o’clock, it was already getting dark. Marie drew the curtains and lit the lamps. ‘There’s nothing more I can do for the moment,’ the doctor said. ‘Little by little she’ll begin to wake up. This evening I’ll come back.’
He had picked up his instruments from the table and was packing his bag. Marie asked: ‘How did you find out what she had taken?’
Fumbling in his pocket he pulled out two glass phials and threw them on to the table. ‘I found these at the back of the fireplace. They always hide them there, in the ashes.’
As he left the room he added: ‘Above all don’t leave her. If she goes completely still, you know what to do.’
Marie went back into the bedroom to find Armand with one hand on Claudine’s inert arm; with the other hand he was holding the two glass phials left behind by the doctor and looking at them uncertainly. ‘Do you have any idea, Marie, why she would do a thing like that?’
‘Do a thing like that?’ Marie repeated his words with a sad smile. ‘That’ encompassed so many things, including Armand himself.
He was completely exhausted with worry and incomprehension. Marie spoke to him briefly, to reassure him, then sent him to lie down in a nearby room.
She sat on the edge of the bed to watch over her sister as the doctor had recommended. At times Claudine’s head would move gently, a little to the right and then a little to the left, or she would attempt to move and let her hand fall, or her whole body would be seized by trembling. The first time she went totally still, for several long moments, Marie shook her by the shoulders, repeating, ‘Claudine! Claudine!’ Then, since she still wasn’t moving, she reached towards the hot, red cheeks and slapped them, gently. As if explaining her actions, she said to her several times: ‘You mustn’t sleep; you mustn’t …’ Then she hit her harder and harder, bravely, for several minutes.
It was time, now, that flowed with such infinite
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