"Well, we got here at last," resumed the man, "and monsieur rushed into
the drawing-room, where he found madame sobbing like a Magdalene. He was
so out of breath he could scarcely speak. His eyes stuck out of his
head, and he stuttered like this--'What's-the-matter? What's
the-matter?' Madame, who couldn't speak either, held out mademoiselle's
letter, which she had in her hand."
The three auditors were on coals of fire; the rogue perceived it, and
spoke more and more slowly.
"Then monsieur took the letter, went to the window, and at a glance read
it through. He cried out hoarsely, thus: 'Oh!' then he went to beating
the air with his hands, like a swimming dog; then he walked up and down
and fell, pouf! like a bag, his face on the floor. That was all."
"Is he dead?" cried all three in the same breath.
"Oh, no; you shall see," responded Baptiste, with a placid smile.
M. Lecoq was a patient man, but not so patient as you might think.
Irritated by the manner of Baptiste's recital, he put down his bundle,
seized the man's arm with his right hand, while with the left he whisked
a light flexible cane, and said:
"Look here, fellow, I want you to hurry up, you know."
That was all he said; the servant was terribly afraid of this little
blond man, with a strange voice, and a fist harder than a vice. He went
on very rapidly this time, his eye fixed on M. Lecoq's rattan.
"Monsieur had an attack of vertigo. All the house was in confusion;
everybody except I, lost their heads; it occurred to me to go for a
doctor, and I started off for one--for Doctor Gendron, whom I knew to be
at the chateau, or the doctor near by, or the apothecary--it mattered
not who. By good luck, at the street corner, I came upon Robelot, the
bone-setter--'Come, follow me,' said I. He did so; sent away those who
were tending monsieur, and bled him in both arms. Shortly after, he
breathed, then he opened his eyes, and then he spoke. Now he is quite
restored, and is lying on one of the drawing-room lounges, crying with
all his might. He told me he wanted to see Monsieur Plantat, and I--"
"And--Mademoiselle Laurence?" asked M. Plantat, with a trembling voice.
Baptiste assumed a tragic pose.
"Ah, gentlemen," said he, "don't ask me about her--'tis heartrending!"
The doctor and M. Plantat heard no more, but hurried in; M. Lecoq
followed, having confided his night-gown to Baptiste, with, "Carry that
to M. Plantat's--quick!"
Misfortune, when it enters a house, seems to leave its fatal imprint on
the very threshold. Perhaps it is not really so, but it is the feeling
which those who are summoned to it experience. As the physician and the
justice of the peace traversed the court-yard, this house, usually so
gay and hospitable, presented a mournful aspect. Lights were seen coming
and going in the upper story. Mlle. Lucile, the mayor's youngest
daughter, had had a nervous attack, and was being tended. A young girl,
who served as Laurence's maid, was seated in the vestibule, on the lower
stair, weeping bitterly. Several domestics were there also, frightened,
motionless, not knowing what to do in all this fright. The drawing-room
door was wide open; the room was dimly lighted by two candles; Mme.
Courtois lay rather than sat in a large arm-chair near the fireplace.
Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the windows at the rear of
the apartment. They had taken off his coat and had torn away his
shirt-sleeves and flannel vest, when he was to be bled. There were
strips of cotton wrapped about his naked arms. A small man, habited like
a well-to-do Parisian artisan, stood near the door, with an embarrassed
expression of countenance. It was Robelot, who had remained, lest any
new exigency for his services should arise.
The entrance of his friend startled M. Courtois from the sad stupor into
which he had been plunged. He got up and staggered into the arms of the
worthy Plantat, saying, in a broken voice:
"Ah, my friend, I am most miserable--most wretched!"
The poor mayor was so changed as scarcely to be recognizable. He was no
longer the happy man of the world, with smiling face, firm look, the
pride of which betrayed plainly his self-importance and prosperity. In a
few hours he had grown twenty years older. He was broken, overwhelmed;
his thoughts wandered in a sea of bitterness. He could only repeat,
vacantly, again and again:
"Wretched! most wretched!"
M. Plantat was the right sort of a friend for such a time. He led M.
Courtois back to the sofa and sat down beside him, and taking his hand
in his own, forced him to calm his grief. He recalled to him that his
wife, the companion of his life, remained to him, to mourn the dear
departed with him. Had he not another daughter to cherish? But the poor
man was in no state to listen to all this.
"Ah, my friend," said he shuddering, "you do not know all! If she had
died here, in the midst of us, comforted by our tender care, my despair
would be great; but nothing compared with that which now tortures me. If
you only knew--"