I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was
"Aurore." Why? Was it the singularity and beauty of the name,--for
novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere
euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application
to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the
North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this
mysterious interest in the name "Aurore?"
I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther. At that
moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without
saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.
"Da doctor, mass'r," whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the
gentlemen to approach.
Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the "doctor." The
professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man,
who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius,
as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his
door-plate in the other.
He was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one
that would be termed handsome. It was, however, interesting, from a
quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual
expression of kind feeling. It had been a German face some two or three
generations before, but an American climate,--political, I mean,--had
tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of European despotism, and
had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature.
Afterwards, when better acquainted with American types, I should have
known it as a Pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was. I saw
before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of
Philadelphia, Dr Edward Reigart. The name confirmed my suspicion of
German origin.
Altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at
first sight.
How different was that I received on glancing toward his companion--
antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust! A face purely French;--not that
noble French face we see in the Duguesclins, the Jean Barts, and among
many of the old Huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a Rollin, a Hugo,
an Arago, or a Pyat;--but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds
sneaking around the Bourse or the _coulisses_ of the Opera, or in
thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian
soldiery. A countenance that I cannot describe better than by saying
that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox. I am not in
jest. I observed this resemblance plainly. I observed the same
obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the
presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel
inhumanity.
In the Doctor's companion I beheld a type of this face,--the fox in
human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed.
My instincts chimed with Scipio's, for I had not the slightest doubt
that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. It was he.
A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who
could endure a great deal before parting with life. He had all the
subtle wiry look of the _carnivora_, as well as their disposition. The
eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. The balls were
not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the
apex. Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of
a weasel. They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this
smile was purely cynical and deceptive. If any one knew themselves
guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre
knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. When a case of misfortune
did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more
intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident
delight. He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.
For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp--shaggy dark brows, set
obliquely--face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by
a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. His dress had somewhat of a
professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black
satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black
ribbon. In age he looked fifty.
The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue,
felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep
myself "as quiet as possible." As an inducement to do so he told me I
was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped
that a few days would restore me to my strength. Scipio was charged
with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled
chicken, for my breakfast.
The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound. This I thought
somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain
quiet. He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of
the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. I was too
anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. Nothing
more had been heard of him. He was certainly lost.
I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of
course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the
wound. I could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the
features of Gayarre as I spoke. He was all attention, and when I told
of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not
support the steward a single moment, I fancied I saw the dark eyes of
the _avocat_ flashing with delight! There certainly was an expression
in them of ill-concealed satisfaction that was hideous to behold. I
might not have noticed this, or at all events not have understood it,
but for what Scipio had already told me. Now its meaning was
unmistakeable, and notwithstanding the "poor Monsieur Antoine!" to which
the hypocrite repeatedly gave utterance, I saw plainly that he was
secretly delighted at the idea of the old steward's having gone to the
bottom!
When I had finished my narrative, Gayarre drew the doctor aside; and the
two conversed for some moments in a low tone. I could hear part of what
passed between them. The doctor seemed not to care whether I overheard
him, while the other appeared equally anxious that their conversation
should not reach me. From the replies of the doctor I could make out
that the wily lawyer wished to have me removed from my present quarters,
and taken to an hotel in the village. He urged the peculiar position in
which the young lady (Mademoiselle Besancon) would be placed--alone in
her house with a stranger--a young man, etcetera, etcetera.
The doctor did not see the necessity of my removal on such grounds. The
lady herself did not wish it--in fact, would not hear of it; he
pooh-poohed the "peculiarity" of the "situation," good Doctor Reigart!--
the accommodation of the hotel was none of the best; besides, it was
already crowded with other sufferers; and here the speaker's voice sank
so low I could only catch odd phrases, as "stranger,", "not an
American", "lost everything", "friends far away", "the hotel no place
for a man without money." Gayarre's reply to this last objection was
that _he_ would be responsible for my hotel bill.
This was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear it; and I
should have felt grateful for such an offer, had I not suspected some
sinister motive for the lawyer's generosity. The doctor met the
proposal with still further objections.
"Impossible," said he; "bring on fever", "great risk", "would not take
the responsibility", "bad wound", "much loss of blood", "must remain
where he is for the present at least", "might be taken to the hotel in a
day or two when stronger."
The promise of my removal in a day or two appeared to satisfy the weasel
Gayarre, or rather he became satisfied that such was the only course
that could be taken with me, and the consultation ended.
Gayarre now approached the bed to take leave, and I could trace that
ironical expression playing in the pupils of his little eyes as he
pronounced some pretended phrases of consolation. He little knew to
whom he was speaking. Had I uttered my name it would perhaps have
brought the colour to his pale cheek, and caused him to make an abrupt
exit. Prudence prevented me from declaring it; and when the doctor
requested to know upon whom he had the honour of attending, I adopted
the pardonable strategy, in use among distinguished travellers, of
giving a _nom du voyage_. I assumed my maternal patronymic of
Rutherford,--Edward Rutherford.
Recommending me to keep myself quiet, not to attempt leaving my bed, to
take certain prescriptions at certain hours, etcetera, etcetera, the
doctor took his leave; Gayarre having already gone out before him.