Fever
"I'm afraid it is a fever," said the man, gazing
down at the motionless face before him. "There is nothing we can do now
but pray."
"But surely there is a way!" cried the woman frantically. "He is
but a child. There is no reason for him to die this way!"
"Very little in life has a reason, Madame. Death least of all. Often have
I seen them taken like this, boys like your son, and once this fever has set
in, there is naught that can be done save to let it run its course and hope
that your son will be one of the few lucky ones who are spared."
The woman was silent for a long while, gazing down at the pale, cold face and
longing to run her fingers through the golden hair. Finally, she looked up from
the portrait, her lined face wearing a sorrowful determination which mirrored
that of her son.
"Then I shall give myself also to this fever and, come what may, tend to
the wounds left by the Revolution. He shall purge, and I shall heal. I should
not be the mother of my son otherwise."