“There are a number of patients waiting for me. I will drop in again
about midnight. I still have several urgent visits to make.” Thus had
Dr. Jodon spoken to Mademoiselle Marguerite; and yet, when he left the
Hotel de Chalusse, after assuring himself that Casimir would have some
straw spread over the street, the doctor quietly walked home. The visits
he had spoken of merely existed in his imagination; but it was a part of
his role to appear to be overrun with patients. To tell the truth,
the only patient he had had to attend to that week was a superannuated
porter, living in the Rue de la Pepiniere, and whom he visited twice a
day, for want of something better to do. The remainder of his time
was spent in waiting for patients who never came, and in cursing the
profession of medicine, which was ruined, he declared, by excessive
competition, combined with certain rules of decorum which hampered young
practitioners beyond endurance.
However, if Dr. Jodon had devoted one-half of the time he spent in
cursing and building castles in the air to study, he might have,
perhaps, raised his little skill to the height of his immense ambition.
But neither work nor patience formed any part of his system. He was
a man of the present age, and wished to rise speedily with as little
trouble as possible. A certain amount of display and assurance, a little
luck, and a good deal of advertising would, in his opinion, suffice to
bring about this result. It was with this conviction, indeed, that he
had taken up his abode in the Rue de Courcelles, situated in one of the
most aristocratic quarters of Paris. But so far, events had shown his
theory to be incorrect. In spite of the greatest economy, very cleverly
concealed, he had seen the little capital which constituted his entire
fortune dwindle away. He had originally possessed but twenty thousand
francs, a sum which in no wise corresponded with his lofty pretensions.
He had paid his rent that very morning; and he could not close his eyes
to the fact that the time was near at hand when he would be unable to
pay it. What should he do then? When he thought of this contingency,
and it was a subject that filled his mind to the exclusion of all other
matters, he felt the fires of wrath and hatred kindle in his soul. He
utterly refused to regard himself as the cause of his own misfortunes;
on the contrary, following the example of many other disappointed
individuals, he railed at mankind and everything in general--at
circumstances, envious acquaintances, and enemies, whom he certainly did
not possess.
At times he was capable of doing almost anything to gratify his lust for
gold, for the privations which he had endured so long were like oil cast
upon the flame of covetousness which was ever burning in his breast. In
calmer moments he asked himself at what other door he could knock,
in view of hastening the arrival of Fortune. Sometimes he thought of
turning dentist, or of trying to find some capitalist who would join him
in manufacturing one of those patent medicines which are warranted
to yield their promoters a hundred thousand francs a year. On other
occasions he dreamed of establishing a monster pharmacy, or of opening
a private hospital. But money was needed to carry out any one of these
plans, and he had no money. There was the rub. However the time was fast
approaching when he must decide upon his course; he could not possibly
hold out much longer.
His third year of practice in the Rue de Courcelles had not yielded him
enough to pay his servant’s wages. For he had a servant, of course.
He had a valet for the same reason as he had a suite of rooms of a
superficially sumptuous aspect. Faithful to his system, or, rather, to
his master’s system, he had sacrificed everything to show. The display
of gilding in his apartments was such as to make a man of taste shut
his eyes to escape the sight of it. There were gorgeous carpets and
hangings, frescoed ceilings, spurious objects of virtu, and pier-tables
loaded with ornaments. An unsophisticated youth from the country would
certainly have been dazzled; but it would not do to examine these things
too closely. There was more cotton than silk in the velvet covering of
the furniture; and if various statuettes placed on brackets at a certain
height had been closely inspected, it would have been found that they
were of mere plaster, hidden beneath a coating of green paint, sprinkled
with copper filings. This plaster, playing the part of bronze, was in
perfect keeping with the man, his system, and the present age.
When the doctor reached home, his first question to his servant was as
usual: “Has any one called?”
“No one.”
The doctor sighed, and passing through his superb waiting-room, he
entered his consulting sanctum, and seated himself in the chimney corner
beside an infinitesimal fire. He was even more thoughtful than usual.
The scene which he had just witnessed at the Count de Chalusse’s house
recurred to his mind, and he turned it over and over again in his brain,
striving to find some way by which he might derive an advantage from the
mystery. For he was more than ever convinced that there was a mystery.
He had been engrossed in these thoughts for some time, when his
meditations were disturbed by a ring at the bell. Who could be calling
at this hour?
The question was answered by his servant, who appeared and informed
him that a lady, who was in a great hurry, was waiting in the
reception-room. “Very well,” was his reply; “but it is best to let her
wait a few moments.” For he had at least this merit: he never deviated
from his system. Under no circumstances whatever would he have admitted
a patient immediately; he wished him to wait so that he might have an
opportunity of reflecting on the advantages of consulting a physician
whose time was constantly occupied.
However, when ten minutes or so had elapsed, he opened the door, and
a tall lady came quickly forward, throwing back the veil which had
concealed her face. She must have been over forty-five; and if she had
ever been handsome, there was nothing to indicate it now. She had brown
hair, thickly sprinkled with gray, but very coarse and abundant, and
growing low over her forehead; her nose was broad and flat; her lips
were thick, and her eyes were dull and expressionless. However, her
manners were gentle and rather melancholy; and one would have judged her
to be somewhat of a devotee. Still for the time being she seemed greatly
agitated. She seated herself at the doctor’s invitation; and without
waiting for him to ask any questions: “I ought to tell you at once,
monsieur,” she began, “that I am the Count de Chalusse’s house-keeper.”
In spite of his self-control, the doctor bounded from his chair. “Madame
Leon?” he asked, in a tone of intense surprise.
She bowed, compressing her thick lips. “I am known by that name--yes,
monsieur. But it is only my Christian name. The one I have a right to
bear would not accord with my present position. Reverses of fortune are
not rare in these days; and were it not for the consoling influences of
religion, one would not have strength to endure them.”
The physician was greatly puzzled. “What can she want of me?” he
thought.
Meanwhile, she had resumed speaking: “I was much reduced in
circumstances--at the end of my resources, indeed--when M. de
Chalusse--a family friend--requested me to act as companion to a young
girl in whom he was interested--Mademoiselle Marguerite. I accepted the
position; and I thank God every day that I did so, for I feel a mother’s
affection for this young girl, and she loves me as fondly as if she were
my own daughter.” In support of her assertion, she drew a handkerchief
from her pocket, and succeeded in forcing a few tears to her eyes.
“Under these circumstances, doctor,” she continued, “you cannot fail to
understand that the interests of my dearly beloved Marguerite bring me
to you. I was shut up in my own room when M. de Chalusse was brought
home, and I did not hear of his illness until after your departure.
Perhaps you might say that I ought to have waited until your next visit;
but I had not sufficient patience to do so. One cannot submit without
a struggle to the torture of suspense, when the future of a beloved
daughter is at stake. So here I am.” She paused to take breath, and then
added, “I have come, monsieur, to ask you to tell me the exact truth
respecting the count’s condition.”
The doctor was expecting something very different, but nevertheless he
replied with all due gravity and self-possession. “It is my painful duty
to tell you, madame, that there is scarcely any hope, and that I expect
a fatal termination within twenty-four hours, unless the patient should
regain consciousness.”
The housekeeper turned pale. “Then all is lost,” she faltered, “all
is lost!” And unable to articulate another word she rose to her feet,
bowed, and abruptly left the room.
Before the grate, with his mouth half open, and his right arm extended
in an interrupted gesture, the doctor stood speechless and disconcerted.
It was only when the outer door closed with a bang that he seemed
restored to consciousness. And as he heard the noise he sprang forward
as if to recall his visitor. “Ah!” he exclaimed, with an oath, “the
miserable old woman was mocking me!” And urged on by a wild, irrational
impulse, he caught up his hat and darted out in pursuit. Madame Leon was
considerably in advance of him, and was walking very quickly; still, by
quickening his pace, he might have overtaken her. However, he did not
join her, for he scarcely knew what excuse to offer for such a strange
proceeding; he contented himself by cautiously following her at a little
distance. Suddenly she stopped short. It was in front of a tobacconist’s
shop, where there was a post-office letter-box. The shop was closed, but
the box was there with its little slit for letters to be dropped into
it. Madame Leon evidently hesitated. She paused, as one always does
before venturing upon a decisive act, from which there will be no
return, whatever may be the consequences. An observer never remains
twenty minutes before a letter-box without witnessing this pantomime so
expressive of irresolution. At last, however, she shrugged her
shoulders with a gesture which eloquently expressed the result of her
deliberations; and drawing a letter from her bosom, she dropped it into
the box, and then hastened on more quickly than before.
“There is not the slightest doubt,” thought the doctor, “that letter had
been prepared in advance, and whether it should be sent or not depended
on the answer I gave.”
We have already said that M. Jodon was not a wealthy man, and yet
he would willingly have given a hundred-franc note to have known the
contents of this letter, or even the name of the person to whom it was
addressed. But his chase was almost ended. Madame Leon had reached the
Hotel de Chalusse, and now went in. Should he follow her? His curiosity
was torturing him to such a degree that he had an idea of doing so;
and it required an heroic effort of will to resist the temptation
successfully. But a gleam of common sense warned him that this would
be a terrible blunder. Once already during the evening his conduct had
attracted attention; and he began to realize that there was a better
way of winning confidence than by intruding almost forcibly into other
people’s affairs. Accordingly he thoughtfully retraced his steps,
feeling intensely disgusted with himself. “What a fool I am!” he
grumbled. “If I had kept the old woman in suspense, instead of blurting
out the truth, I might have learned the real object of her visit; for
she had an object. But what was it?”
The doctor spent the two hours that remained to him before making his
second visit in trying to discover it. But, although nothing prevented
him from exploring the boundless fields of improbable possibilities, he
could think of nothing satisfactory. There was only one certain point,
that Madame Leon and Mademoiselle Marguerite were equally interested in
the question as to whether the count would regain consciousness or not.
As to their interests in the matter, the doctor felt confident that
they were not identical; he was persuaded that a secret enmity
existed between them, and that the housekeeper had visited him without
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s knowledge. For he was not deceived by Madame
Leon, or by her pretended devotion to Mademoiselle Marguerite. Her
manner, her smooth words, her tone of pious resignation, and the
allusion to the grand name she had the right to bear, were all
calculated to impose upon one; but she had been too much disconcerted
toward the last to remember her part. Dr. Jodon lacked the courage to
return to his sumptuous rooms, and it was in a little cafe that he thus
reflected upon the situation, while drinking some execrable beer brewed
in Paris out of a glass manufactured in Bavaria.
At last midnight sounded--the hour had come. Still the doctor did not
move. Having been obliged to wait himself, he wished, in revenge, to
make the others wait, and it was not until the cafe closed that he again
walked up the Rue de Courcelles. Madame Leon had left the gate ajar, and
the doctor had no difficulty in making his way into the courtyard. As
in the earlier part of the evening, the servants were assembled in the
concierge’s lodge; but the careless gayety which shone upon their faces
a few hours before had given place to evident anxiety respecting their
future prospects. Through the windows of the lodge they could be seen
standing round the two choice spirits of the household, M. Bourigeau,
the concierge, and M. Casimir, the valet, who were engaged in earnest
conversation. And if the doctor had listened, he would have heard
such words as “wages,” and “legacies,” and “remuneration for faithful
service,” and “annuities” repeated over and over again.
But M. Jodon did not listen. Thinking he should find some servant
inside, he entered the house. However, there was nobody to announce his
presence; the door closed noiselessly behind him, the heavy carpet which
covered the marble steps stifled the sound of his footsteps, and he
ascended the first flight without seeing any one. The door opening into
the count’s room was open, the room itself being brilliantly lighted by
a large fire, and a lamp which stood on a corner of the mantel-shelf.
Instinctively the doctor paused and looked in. There had been no change
since his first visit. The count was still lying motionless on his
pillows; his face was swollen, his eyelids were closed, but he still
breathed, as was shown by the regular movement of the covering over his
chest. Madame Leon and Mademoiselle Marguerite were his only attendants.
The housekeeper, who sat back a little in the shade, was half reclining
in an arm-chair with her hands clasped in her lap, her lips firmly
compressed, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy. Pale but calm, and more
imposing and more beautiful than ever, Mademoiselle Marguerite was
kneeling beside the bed, eagerly watching for some sign of renewed life
and intelligence on the count’s face.
A little ashamed of his indiscretion, the doctor retreated seven or
eight steps down the stairs, and then ascended them again, coughing
slightly, so as to announce his approach. This time he was heard.
for Mademoiselle Marguerite came to the door to meet him. “Well?” he
inquired.
“Alas!”
He advanced toward the bed, but before he had time to examine his
patient Mademoiselle Marguerite handed him a scrap of paper. “The
physician who usually attends M. de Chalusse has been here in your
absence, monsieur,” said she. “This is his prescription, and we have
already administered a few drops of the potion.”