AFTER THE STORM.
Three days have elapsed since Yvon Cloarek left his home without
notifying his daughter of his intended departure, and this once pleasant
and tranquil abode shows traces of recent devastation almost everywhere.
One of the out-buildings have been almost entirely destroyed by fire,
and pieces of blackened rubbish and half-burned rafters cover a part of
the garden.
The door and several windows on the ground floor, which have been
shattered by an axe, have been replaced by boards; several large red
stains disfigure the walls, and several of the sashes in the second
story have been riddled with shot.
It is midnight.
By the light of a shaded lamp burning in one of the sleeping apartments,
one can dimly discern the form of Onésime, and the sheets of the bed on
which he is lying are stained with blood in several places.
Suzanne's nephew seems to be asleep. His face is death-like in its
pallor, and a melancholy smile is playing upon his parted lips.
An elderly woman in peasant garb is sitting by his bedside, watching him
with evident solicitude.
The profound silence that pervades the room is broken by the cautious
opening and shutting of the door, and Dame Roberts steals on tiptoe up
to the bed, and, drawing one of the curtains a little aside, gazes in
upon her nephew with great anxiety.
In three days Suzanne's features have become almost
unrecognisable,--sorrow, anxiety, and tears have wrought such ravages in
them.
After gazing at Onésime in silence for several seconds, Suzanne stepped
back, and, beckoning the attendant to come closer, said to her, in a
whisper:
"How has he been since I went out?"
"He hasn't seemed to suffer quite as much, I think."
"Has he complained at all?"
"Very little. He has tried to question me several times, but I
remembered your orders and would tell him nothing."
"He has recovered consciousness, then?"
"Entirely, madame. It is very evident that he would be glad enough to
talk, if he could get any one to answer his questions."
"Has he asked for me?"
"Oh, yes, madame, he said to me several times: 'My aunt will be in soon,
won't she?' I told him that you came in almost every half-hour. He made
a slight movement of the head to indicate that he thanked me, and then
he fell asleep, but only to wake with a start a few minutes afterward."
"He doesn't seem to suffer much from his wound now, does he?"
"No, madame, only he has had considerable difficulty in breathing once
or twice."
"Heaven grant that his wound may not prove fatal!" exclaimed Suzanne,
clasping her hands imploringly, and raising her tearful eyes heavenward.
"The surgeon assured you to the contrary, you know, madame."
"He told me that he had hopes of his recovery, that is all, alas!"
"I think he is waking, madame," whispered the peasant woman, for Onésime
had just made a slight movement and uttered a deep sigh.
Suzanne peeped in again, and, seeing that Onésime was not asleep, she
said to the peasant:
"Go down and get your dinner. I will ring for you when I want you."
The nurse left the room, and Suzanne seated herself in the chair the
woman had just vacated.
On hearing his aunt's voice, Onésime looked greatly relieved; and when
he saw her seat herself near him, he exclaimed:
"So you have come at last! How glad I am!"
"I heard you sigh just now, my dear boy, so you must still be suffering
just as much or more, I fear."
"No; I feel much better."
"You are not saying that merely to reassure me, I hope."
"Take hold of my hand. You know how hot it was awhile ago."
"Yes, it is much cooler now, I see. And your wound, does it still
trouble you much?"
"I have a little difficulty in breathing, that is all. The wound itself
doesn't amount to much."
"Good Heavens! so a wound in the breast from a dagger is nothing, is
it?"
"My dear aunt--"
"What do you want?"
"How is Mlle. Sabine?"
"Everybody is well, very well, as I've told you before."
"And M. Cloarek?"
"There is no use in asking me so many questions. I sha'n't answer them.
By and by, when you are really better, it will be different."
"Listen, aunt. You refuse to answer me for fear of agitating me too
much, but I swear to you that the uncertainty I am in concerning Mlle.
Sabine and M. Cloarek makes me miserable."
"Everybody is getting on very well, I tell you."
"No, aunt, no, that is impossible, after the terrible and still
inexplicable occurrence that--"
"But, my dear nephew, I assure you--Come, come, don't be so impatient.
Can't you be a little more reasonable? Calm yourself, Onésime, I beg of
you!"
"Is it my fault? Why will you persist in keeping me in such a state of
suspense?"
"Don't I keep telling you that everybody is well?"
"But I tell you that is impossible," exclaimed the young man, excitedly.
"What! do you mean to tell me that Mlle. Sabine, who starts and trembles
at the slightest sound, could see her home invaded by a furious band of
armed men, without sustaining a terrible, perhaps fatal, shock?"
"But, Onésime, listen to me--"
"Who knows but she may be dead, dead, and you are concealing it from me?
You think you are acting for the best, aunt, but you are mistaken. The
truth, no matter how terrible it may be, will do me much less harm than
this state of frightful uncertainty. Sleeping and waking, I am a prey to
the most terrible fears. I would a hundred times rather be dead than
live in this state of suspense."
"Listen, then, but promise to be reasonable and have courage."
"Courage? Ah, I knew that some terrible calamity had occurred."
"Dear me! I knew it would be just this way whatever I said or did!"
cried poor Suzanne. "You see yourself that at the very first word I say
to you--"
"Oh, my God! I had a presentiment of it. She is dead!"
"No, no, she is living, she is living. I swear it! She has suffered
terribly,--she has been alarmingly ill, but her life is no longer in
danger."
"It has been in danger, then?"
"Yes, for two days, but I have just seen her and talked with her, and
there is no longer cause for the slightest anxiety."
"God be thanked!" exclaimed Onésime, fervently. "And how much I thank
you, too, my dear aunt. Ah, if you knew how much good you have done me,
and how relieved I feel. Is M. Cloarek here?"
"No."
"Where is he?"
"We do not know."
"But that fatal night--"
"He came home, and was slightly wounded in the fray, but no one has seen
him since."
"And that strange attack upon the house, those frightful but
incomprehensible words which were uttered by Mlle. Sabine, and which I
seemed to hear as in a dream after I was hurt. These things puzzle me
so. Explain them, I beg of you."
"In your present state of mind I can see that a refusal on my part might
prove dangerous."
"Yes, very dangerous."
"But I repeat that you must have courage, for--"
"I will, aunt, I will."
"You remember, do you not, that on the afternoon of that memorable day,
M. Cloarek, who had left for Havre without our knowing it, sent a
message to his daughter from that city telling her that she must not be
anxious about him, as some business matters might detain him until late
that night? You recollect that, do you not?"
"Yes."
"You remember, too, the fright we had the very evening of M. Cloarek's
arrival?"
"Yes, about those two men Thérèse thought she saw."
"The poor girl saw them only too plainly, as subsequent events have
proved, for two men, as we afterward learned, did effect an entrance
into the garden, not to break into the house, but to reconnoitre."
"The two men belonged to this armed band, then, I suppose."
"One of them was the leader of it."
Just then the nurse reëntered the room and motioned to Suzanne that she
wished to speak to her.
"What is it?" inquired Suzanne, in a low tone.
"M. Segoffin has come."
"And M. Cloarek?"
"M. Segoffin is alone and wants to see Mlle. Sabine at once. Thérèse
went up to tell her, and she sent word for him to come right up to her
room."
"Tell mademoiselle that I will come at once if she needs me."
The nurse left the room again, and Suzanne returned to her nephew's
bedside to continue her conversation with him.