“Ah! it is for her sake first of all that I ought to make an end of it.
Poor Dionysia! Certainly she would grieve terribly when she heard of
my suicide. But she is not twenty yet. My memory would soon fade in her
heart; and weeks growing into months, and months into years, she would
find comfort. To live means to forget.”
“No! You cannot really think what you are saying!” broke in M. Folgat.
“You know very well that she--she would never forget you!”
A tear appeared in the eyes of the unfortunate man, and he said in a
half-smothered voice,--
“You are right. I believe to strike me down means to strike her down
also. But do you think what life would be after a condemnation? Can you
imagine what her sensations would be, if day after day she had to say
to herself, ‘He whom alone I love upon earth is at the galleys, mixed up
with the lowest of criminals, disgraced for life, dishonored.’ Ah! death
is a thousand times preferable.”
“Jacques, M. de Boiscoran, do you forget that you have given me your
word of honor?”
“The proof that I have not forgotten it is that you see me here. But,
never mind, the day is not very far off when you will see me so wretched
that you yourself will be the first to put a weapon into my hands.”
But the young advocate was one of those men whom difficulties only
excite and stimulate, instead of discouraging. He had already recovered
somewhat from the first great shock, and he said,--
“Before you throw down your hand, wait, at least, till the game is lost.
You are not sentenced yet. Far from it! You are innocent, and there
is divine justice. Who tells us that Count Claudieuse will really give
evidence? We do not even know whether he has not, at this moment, drawn
his last breath upon earth!”
Jacques leaped up as if in a spasm, and turning deadly pale,
exclaimed,--
“Ah, don’t say that! That fatal thought has already occurred to me, that
perhaps he did not rise again last night. Would to God that that be not
so! for then I should but too surely be an assassin. He was my first
thought when I awoke. I thought of sending out to make inquiries. But I
did not dare do it.”
M. Folgat felt his heart oppressed with most painful anxiety, like the
prisoner himself. Hence he said at once,--
“We cannot remain in this uncertainty. We can do nothing as long as the
count’s fate is unknown to us; for on his fate depends ours. Allow me to
leave you now. I will let you know as soon as I hear any thing positive.
And, above all, keep up your courage, whatever may happen.”
The young advocate was sure of finding reliable information at Dr.
Seignebos’s house. He hastened there; and, as soon as he entered, the
physician cried,--
“Ah, there you are coming at last! I give up twenty of my worst patients
to see you, and you keep me waiting forever. I was sure you would come.
What happened last night at Count Claudieuse’s house?”
“Then you know”--
“I know nothing. I have seen the results; but I do not know the cause.
The result was this: last night, about eleven o’clock, I had just gone
to bed, tired to death, when, all of a sudden, somebody rings my bell
as if he were determined to break it. I do not like people to perform so
violently at my door; and I was getting up to let the man know my
mind, when Count Claudieuse’s servant rushed in, pushing my own servant
unceremoniously aside, and cried out to me to come instantly, as his
master had just died.”
“Great God!”
“That is what I said, because, although I knew the count was very ill, I
did not think he was so near death.”
“Then, he is really dead?”
“Not at all. But, if you interrupt me continually, I shall never be able
to tell you.”
And taking off his spectacles, wiping them, and putting them on again,
he went on,--
“I was dressed in an instant, and in a few minutes I was at the house.
They asked me to go into the sitting-room down stairs. There I found, to
my great amazement, Count Claudieuse, lying on a sofa. He was pale and
stiff, his features fearfully distorted, and on his forehead a slight
wound, from which a slender thread of blood was trickling down. Upon my
word I thought it was all over.”
“And the countess?”
“The countess was kneeling by her husband; and, with the help of her
women, she was trying to resuscitate him by rubbing him, and putting
hot napkins on his chest. But for these wise precautions she would be
a widow at this moment; whilst, as it is, he may live a long time yet.
This precious count has a wonderful tenacity of life. We, four of us,
then took him and carried him up stairs, and put him to bed, after
having carefully warmed it first. He soon began to move; he opened his
eyes; and a quarter of an hour later he had recovered his consciousness,
and spoke readily, though with a somewhat feeble voice. Then, of course,
I asked what had happened, and for the first time in my life I saw the
marvellous self-possession of the countess forsake her. She stammered
pitifully, looking at her husband with a most frightened air, as if she
wished to read in his eyes what she should say. He undertook to answer
me; but he, also was evidently very much embarrassed. He said, that
being left alone, and feeling better than usual, he had taken it into
his head to try his strength. He had risen, put on his dressing-gown,
and gone down stairs; but, in the act of entering the room, he had
become dizzy, and had fallen so unfortunately as to hurt his forehead
against the sharp corner of a table. I affected to believe it, and said,
‘You have done a very imprudent thing, and you must not do it again.’
Then he looked at his wife in a very singular way, and replied, ‘Oh! you
can be sure I shall not commit another imprudence. I want too much to
get well. I have never wished it so much as now.’”
M. Folgat was on the point of replying; but the doctor closed his lips
with his hand, and said,--
“Wait, I have not done yet.”