“You shall live, mademoiselle,” he uttered in a grave voice. “You
shall live to learn to love life.”
And, as she was looking at him in surprise,
“You do not know me,” he added.
Timidly, and as if doubting the reality,
“You,” she said, “the Marquis de Tregars!”
“Yes, mademoiselle, your brother.”
Had he had the control of events, Marius de Tregars would probably
not have been in such haste to reveal this fact.
But how could he control himself in presence of that bed where a
poor girl was, perhaps, about to die, sacrificed to the terrors
and to the cravings of the miserable woman who was her mother,--to
die at twenty, victim of the basest and most odious of crimes? How
could he help feeling an intense pity at the sight of this
unfortunate young woman who had endured every thing that a human
being can suffer, whose life had been but a long and painful
struggle, whose courage had risen above all the woes of adversity,
and who had been able to pass without a stain through the mud and
mire of Paris.
Besides, Marius was not one of those men who mistrust their first
impulse, who manifest their emotion only for a purpose, who reflect
and calculate before giving themselves up to the inspirations of
their heart.
Lucienne was the daughter of the Marquis de Tregars: of that he was
absolutely certain. He knew that the same blood flowed in his veins
and in hers; and he told her so.
He told her so, above all, because he believed her in danger; and
he wished, were she to die, that she should have, at least, that
supreme joy. Poor Lucienne! Never had she dared to dream of such
happiness. All her blood rushed to her cheeks; and, in a voice
vibrating with the most intense emotion,
“Ah, now, yes,” she uttered, “I would like to live.”
The commissary of police, also, felt moved.
“Do not be alarmed, my child,” he said in his kindest tone.
“Before two weeks you will be up. M. de Tregars is a great
physician.”
In the mean time, she had attempted to raise herself on her pillow;
and that simple effort had wrung from her a cry of anguish.
“Dear me! How I do suffer!”
“That’s because you won’t keep quiet, my darling,” said Mme. Fortin
in a tone of gentle scolding. “Have you forgotten that the doctor
has expressly forbidden you to stir?”
Then taking aside the commissary, Maxence, and M. de Tregars, she
explained to them how imprudent it was to disturb Mlle. Lucienne’s
rest. She was very ill, affirmed the worthy hostess; and her advice
was, that they should send for a sick-nurse as soon as possible.
She would have been extremely happy, of course, to spend the night
by the side of her dear lodger; but, unfortunately, she could not
think of it, the hotel requiring all her time and attention.
Fortunately, however, she knew in the neighborhood a widow, a very
honest woman, and without her equal in taking care of the sick.
With an anxious and beseeching look, Maxence was consulting M. de
Tregars. In his eyes could be read the proposition that was burning
upon his lips,
“Shall I not go for Gilberte?”
But that proposition he had no time to express. Though they had
been speaking very low, Mlle. Lucienne had heard.
“I have a friend,” she said, “who would certainly be willing to sit
up with me.”
They all went up to her.
“What friend,” inquired the commissary of police.
“You know her very well, sir. It is that poor girl who had taken
me home with her at Batignolles when I left the hospital, who came
to my assistance during the Commune, and whom you helped to get
out of the Versailles prisons.”
“Do you know what has become of her?”
“Only since yesterday, when I received a letter from her, a very
friendly letter. She writes that she has found money to set up a
dressmaking establishment, and that she is relying upon me to be
her forewoman. She is going to open in the Rue St. Lazare; but,
in the mean time, she is stopping in the Rue du Cirque.”