“I must add,” continued Mademoiselle Marguerite, “that the doctor
approved of all that had been done; and I beg you will unite your skill
with his in treating the case.”
Unfortunately all the medical skill of the faculty would have availed
nothing here. After another examination, Dr. Jodon declared that it
would be necessary to wait for the action of nature, but that he must
be informed of the slightest change in the sick man’s condition. “And I
will tell my servant to wake me at once if I am sent for,” he added.
He was already leaving the room, when Madame Leon barred his passage.
“Isn’t it true, doctor, that one attentive person would suffice to watch
over the count?” she asked.
“Most assuredly,” he answered.
The housekeeper turned toward Mademoiselle Marguerite. “Ah, you see, my
dear young lady,” she said, “what did I tell you? Listen to me; take a
little rest. Watching is not suitable work for one of your age----”
“It is useless to insist,” interrupted the young girl, resolutely. “I
shall remain here. I shall watch over him myself.”
The housekeeper made no reply; but it seemed to the doctor that the two
women exchanged singular glances. “The devil!” he muttered, as he took
his departure; “one might think that they distrusted each other!”
Perhaps he was right; but at all events he had scarcely left the house
before Madame Leon again urged her dear young lady to take a few
hours’ rest. “What can you fear?” she insisted, in her wheedling voice.
“Sha’n’t I be here? Do you suppose your old Leon capable of losing
herself in sleep, when your future depends upon a word from that poor
man lying there?”
“Pray, cease.”
“Ah, no! my dear young lady; my love for you compels me.”
“Oh, enough!” interrupted Mademoiselle Marguerite; “enough, Leon!”
Her tone was so determined that the housekeeper was compelled to yield;
but not without a deep sigh, not without an imploring glance to Heaven,
as if calling upon Providence to witness the purity of her motives and
the usefulness of her praiseworthy efforts. “At least, my dear lady,
wrap yourself up warmly. Shall I go and bring you your heavy travelling
shawl?”
“Thanks, my dear Leon--Annette will bring it.”
“Then, pray, send for it. But we are not going to watch alone? What
should we do if we needed anything?”
“I will call,” replied Marguerite.
This was unnecessary, for Dr. Jodon’s departure from the house had put
an abrupt termination to the servants’ conference; and they were now
assembled on the landing, anxious and breathless, and peering eagerly
into the sick-room.
Mademoiselle Marguerite went toward them. “Madame Leon and myself will
remain with the count,” she said. “Annette”--this was the woman whom
she liked best of all the servants “Casimir and a footman will spend the
night in the little side salon. The others may retire.”
Her orders were obeyed. Two o’clock sounded from the church-tower near
by, and then the solemn and terrible silence was only broken by the
hard breathing of the unconscious man and the implacable ticktack of the
clock on the mantel-shelf, numbering the seconds which were left for
him to live. From the streets outside, not a sound reached this princely
abode, which stood between a vast courtyard and a garden as large as a
park. Moreover, the straw which had been spread over the paving-stones
effectually deadened the rumble of the few vehicles that passed.
Enveloped in a soft, warm shawl, Madame Leon had again taken possession
of her arm-chair, and while she pretended to be reading a prayer-book,
she kept a close watch over her dear young lady, as if she were striving
to discover her in-most thoughts. Mademoiselle Marguerite did not
suspect this affectionate espionage. Besides, what would it have
mattered to her? She had rolled a low arm-chair near the bedside, seated
herself in it, and her eyes were fixed upon M. de Chalusse. Two or three
times she started violently, and once even she said to Madame Leon:
“Come--come and see!”
It seemed to her that there was a faint change in the patient’s face;
but it was only a fancy--she had been deceived by the shadows that
played about the room, caused by the capricious flame in the grate. The
hours were creeping on, and the housekeeper, wearying at last of her
fruitless watch, dropped asleep; her head fell forward on to her breast,
her prayer-book slipped from her hands, and finally she began to snore.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite did not perceive this, absorbed as she was
in thoughts which, by reason of their very profundity, had ceased to
be sorrowful. Perhaps she felt she was keeping a last vigil over her
happiness, and that with the final breath of this dying man all her
girlhood’s dreams and all her dearest hopes would take flight for
evermore. Undoubtedly her thoughts flew to the man to whom she had
promised her life--to Pascal, to the unfortunate fellow whose honor
was being stolen from him at that very moment, in a fashionable
gaming-house.
About five o’clock the air became so close that she felt a sudden
faintness, and opened the window to obtain a breath of fresh air. The
noise aroused Madame Leon from her slumbers. She rose, yawned, and
rather sullenly declared that she felt very queer, and would certainly
fall ill if she did not take some refreshment. It became necessary to
summon M. Casimir, who brought her a glass of Madeira and some biscuits.
“Now I feel better,” she murmured, after her repast. “My excessive
sensibility will be the death of me.” And so saying, she dropped asleep
again.
Mademoiselle Marguerite had meanwhile returned to her seat; but her
thoughts gradually became confused, her eyelids grew heavy, and although
she struggled, she at last fell asleep in her turn, with her head
resting on the count’s bed. It was daylight when a strange and terrible
shock awoke her. It seemed to her as if an icy hand, some dead person’s
hand, was gently stroking her head, and tenderly caressing her hair. She
at once sprang to her feet. The sick man had regained consciousness;
his eyes were open and his right arm was moving. Mademoiselle Marguerite
darted to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, and as a servant
appeared in answer to the summons, she cried: “Run for the physician who
lives near here--quick!--and tell him that the count is conscious.”
In an instant, almost, the sick-room was full of servants, but the girl
did not perceive it. She had approached M. de Chalusse, and taking his
hand, she tenderly asked: “You hear me, do you not, monsieur? Do you
understand me?”
His lips moved; but only a hollow, rattling sound, which was absolutely
unintelligible, came from his throat. Still, he understood her; as
it was easy to see by his gestures--despairing and painful ones, for
paralysis had not released its hold on its victim, and it was only with
great difficulty that he could slightly move his right arm. He evidently
desired something. But what?
They mentioned the different articles in the room--everything indeed
that they could think of. But in vain, until the housekeeper suddenly
exclaimed: “He wishes to write.”
That was, indeed, what he desired. With the hand that was comparatively
free, with the hoarse rattle that was his only voice, M. de Chalusse
answered, “Yes, yes!” and his eyes even turned to Madame Leon with an
expression of joy and gratitude. They raised him on his pillows, and
brought him a small writing-desk, with some paper, and a pen that
had been dipped in ink. But like those around him, he had himself
over-estimated his strength; if he could move his hand, he could not
CONTROL its movements. After a terrible effort and intense suffering,
however, he succeeded in tracing a few words, the meaning of which it
was impossible to understand. It was only with the greatest
difficulty that these words could be deciphered--“My entire
fortune--give--friends--against----” This signified nothing.
In despair, he dropped the pen, and his glance and his hand turned to
that part of the room opposite his bed. “Monsieur means his escritoire,
perhaps?”
“Yes, yes,” the sick man hoarsely answered.
“Perhaps the count wishes that it should be opened?”
“Yes, yes!” was the reply again.
“My God!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Marguerite, with a gesture of despair;
“what have I done? I have broken the key. I feared the responsibility
which would fall upon us all.”
The expression of the count’s face had become absolutely frightful.
It indicated utter discouragement, the most bitter suffering, the most
horrible despair. His soul was writhing in a body from which life had
fled. Intelligence, mind, and will were fast bound in a corpse which
they could not electrify. The consciousness of his own powerlessness
caused him a paroxysm of frantic rage; his hands clinched, the veins in
his throat swelled, his eyes almost started from their sockets, and in
a harsh, shrill voice that had nothing human in it, he exclaimed:
“Marguerite!--despoiled!--take care!--your mother!” And this was all--it
was the supreme effort that broke the last link that bound the soul to
earth.
“A priest!” cried Madame Leon! “A priest! In the name of Heaven, go for
a priest!”
“Rather for a notary,” suggested M. Casimir. “You see he wishes to make
a will.”
But at that moment the physician entered, pale and breathless. He walked
straight to the bedside, glanced at the motionless form, and solemnly
exclaimed: “The Count de Chalusse is dead!”
There was a moment’s stupor--the stupor which always follows death,
especially when death comes suddenly and unexpectedly. A feeling of
mingled wonder, selfishness, and fear pervaded the group of servants.
“Yes, it is over!” muttered the doctor; “it is all over!”
And as he was familiar with these painful scenes, and had lost none
of his self-possession, he furtively studied Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
features and attitude. She seemed thunderstruck. With dry, fixed eyes
and contracted features, she stood rooted to her place, gazing at the
lifeless form as if she were expecting some miracle--as if she still
hoped to hear those rigid lips reveal the secret which he had tried in
vain to disclose, and which he had carried with him to the grave.
The physician was the only person who observed this. The other occupants
of the room were exchanging looks of distress. Some of the women had
fallen upon their knees, and were sobbing and praying in the same
breath. But Madame Leon’s sobs could be heard above the rest. They were
at first inarticulate moans, but suddenly she sprang toward Mademoiselle
Marguerite, and clasping her in her arms, she cried: “What a misfortune!
My dearest child, what a loss!” Utterly incapable of uttering a word,
the poor girl tried to free herself from this close embrace, but the
housekeeper would not be repulsed, and continued: “Weep, my dear young
lady, weep! Do not refuse to give vent to your sorrow.”
She herself displayed so little self-control that the physician
reprimanded her with considerable severity, whereat her emotion
increased, and with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, she sobbed:
“Yes, doctor, yes; you are right; I ought to moderate my grief. But
pray, doctor, remove my beloved Marguerite from this scene, which is too
terrible for her young and tender heart. Persuade her to retire to her
own room, so that she may ask God for strength to bear the misfortune
which has befallen her.”
The poor girl had certainly no intention of leaving the room, but
before she could say so, M. Casimir stepped forward. “I think,” he dryly
observed, “that mademoiselle had better remain here.”
“Eh?” said Madame Leon, looking up suddenly. “And why, if you please?”
“Because--because----”
Anger had dried the housekeeper’s tears. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Do you pretend to prevent mademoiselle from doing as she chooses in her
own house?”
M. Casimir gave vent to a contemptuous whistle, which, twenty-four hours
earlier, would have been punished with a heavy blow from the man who
was now lying there--dead. “Her own house!” he answered; “her own house!
Yesterday I shouldn’t have denied it; but to-day it’s quite another
thing. Is she a relative? No, she isn’t. What are you talking about,
then? We are all equals here.”
He spoke so impudently that even the doctor felt indignant. “Scoundrel!”
said he.
But the valet turned toward him with an air which proved that he was
well acquainted with the doctor’s servant, and, consequently, with all
the secrets of the master’s life. “Call your own valet a scoundrel, if
you choose,” he retorted, “but not me. Your duties here are over, aren’t
they? So leave us to manage our own affairs. Thank heaven, I know what
I’m talking about. Everybody knows that caution must be exercised in a
dead man’s house, especially when that house is full of money, and when,
instead of relatives, there are--persons who--who are there nobody knows
how or why. In case any valuables were missed, who would be accused
of taking them? Why, the poor servants, of course. Ah, they have broad
shoulders! Their trunks would be searched; and even if nothing were
found, they would be sent to prison all the same. In the meantime other
people would escape with the booty. No, Lisette! No one will stir from
this room until the arrival of the justice----”
Madame Leon was bursting with rage. “All right!” she interrupted; “I’m
going to send for the count’s particular friend, General----”
“I don’t care a fig for your general.”
“Wretch!”
It was Mademoiselle Marguerite who put an end to this indecent dispute.
Its increasing violence had aroused her from her stupor. Casimir’s
impudence brought a flush to her forehead, and stepping forward with
haughty resolution, she exclaimed: “You forget that one never raises
one’s voice in the chamber of death.” Her words were so true, and her
manner so majestic, that M. Casimir was silenced. Then, pointing to the
door, she coldly added: “Go for the justice of the peace, and don’t set
foot here again, except in his company.”
He bowed, stammered an unintelligible apology, and left the room. “She
always gets the best of me,” he growled, as he went downstairs. “But
seals shall be put on everything.”
When he entered the porter’s lodge, M. Bourigeau was just getting up,
having slept all night, while his wife watched. “Quick,” ordered M.
Casimir; “make haste and finish dressing, and run for the justice of the
peace--we must have him here at once. Everything must be done regularly
and in order, upstairs.”
The concierge was in despair. “Heavens!” he exclaimed; “so the master’s
dead! What a misfortune!”
“You may well say so; and this is the second time such a thing has
happened to me. I remember now what a shrewd fellow named Chupin once
said to me. ‘If I were a servant,’ he remarked, ‘before entering a man’s
service, I’d make him insure his life for my benefit in one of those
new-fangled companies, so that I might step into a handsome fortune if
he took it into his head to die.’ But make haste, Bourigeau.”
“That’s a famous idea, but scarcely practicable,” growled the concierge.
“I don’t know whether it is or not. But at all events I’m terribly
annoyed. The count was giving me enormous wages, and I had got him
nicely into my ways. Well, after all, I shall only have to begin again!”
M. Bourigeau had not yet attained to the heights of such serene
philosophy, and as he buttoned his overcoat, he groaned: “Ah! you’re not
situated as I am, Casimir. You’ve only yourself to look out for. I have
my furniture; and if I don’t succeed in finding a position where I can
have two rooms, I shall be obliged to sell part of it. What a blessed
nuisance!”
As soon as he was dressed he started off on his mission; and M. Casimir,
who dared not return to the house, began walking slowly to and fro
in front of the lodge. He had made some thirty turns or so, and was
beginning to feel impatient, when he saw Victor Chupin approaching. “You
are always on hand at the right moment,” remarked M. Casimir. “It’s all
over!”
Chupin turned eagerly. “Then our bargain holds?” he exclaimed. “You
understand what I mean--the funeral, you know.”
“It isn’t certain that I shall have anything to do with it; but call
again in three hours from now.”
“All right, I’ll be here.”
“And M. Fortunat?” asked Casimir.
“He received what he called a ‘violent shock’ last evening, but he’s
better this morning. He instructed me to tell you that he should look
for you between twelve and one--you know where.”
“I’ll endeavor to be there, although it may be difficult for me to get
away. If I go, however, I’ll show him the letter that caused the count’s
illness; for the count threw it away, after tearing it into several
pieces, and I found some of the bits which escaped his notice as well as
mademoiselle’s. It’s a strange letter, upon my word!”
Chupin gazed at the valet with a look of mingled wonder and admiration.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “how fortunate a man must be to secure a valet
like you!”
His companion smiled complacently, but all of a sudden he remarked:
“Make haste and go. I see Bourigeau in the distance, bringing the
justice of the peace.”