THE PORTRAIT.
Having seen Dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was,
in truth, but a very slight one, I left him and went home, promising to
return in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreed
that he must leave Paris that evening, come what might.
It was now close upon two o'clock, and I had been out since between
three and four the previous afternoon--not quite twenty-four hours, in
point of actual time; but a week, a month, a year, in point of
sensation! Had I not seen a man die since that hour yesterday?
Walking homewards through the garish streets in the hot afternoon, all
the strange scenes in which I had just been an actor thronged
fantastically upon my memory. The joyous dinner with Franz Müller; the
busy Temple; the noisy theatre; the long chase through the wet streets
at midnight; the crowded gaming-house; the sweet country drive at early
morning; the quiet wood, and the dead man lying on his back, with the
shadows of the leaves upon his face,--all this, in strange distinctness,
came between me and the living tide of the Boulevards.
And now, over-tired and over-excited as I was, I remembered for the
first time that I had eaten nothing since half-past five that morning.
And then I also remembered that I had left Müller waiting for me under
the archway, without a word of explanation. I promised myself that I
would write to him as soon as I got home, and in the meantime turned in
at the first Café to which I came and called for breakfast. But when the
breakfast was brought, I could not eat it. The coffee tasted bitter to
me. The meat stuck in my throat. I wanted rest more than food--rest of
body and mind, and the forgetfulness of sleep! So I paid my bill, and,
leaving the untasted meal, went home like a man in a dream.
Madame Bouïsse was not in her little lodge as I passed it--neither was
my key on its accustomed hook. I concluded that she was cleaning my
rooms, and so, going upstairs, found my door open. Hearing my own name,
however, I paused involuntarily upon the threshold.
"And so, as I was saying," pursued a husky voice, which I knew at once
to be the property of Madame Bouïsse, "M'sieur Basil's friend painted it
on purpose for him; and I am sure if he was as good a Catholic as the
Holy Father himself, and that picture was a true portrait of our Blessed
Lady, he could not worship it more devoutly. I believe he says his
prayers to it, mam'selle! I often find it in the morning stuck up by the
foot of his bed; and when he comes home of an evening to study his books
and papers, it always stands on a chair just in front of his table, so
that he can see it without turning his head, every time he lifts his
eyes from the writing!"
In the murmured reply that followed, almost inaudible though it was, my
ear distinguished a tone that set my heart beating.
"Well, I can't tell, of course," said Madame Bouïsse, in answer,
evidently, to the remark just made; "but if mam'selle will only take the
trouble to look in the glass, and then look at the picture, she will see
how like it is. For my part, I believe it to be that, and nothing else.
Do you suppose I don't know the symptoms? _Dame!_ I have eyes, as well
as my neighbors; and you may take my word for it, mam'selle, that poor
young gentleman is just as much in love as ever a man was in
this world!"
"No more of this, if you please, Madame Bouïsse," said Hortense, so
distinctly that I could no longer be in doubt as to the speaker.
I stayed to hear no more; but retreating softly down the first flight of
stairs, came noisily up again, and went straight into my
rooms, saying:--
"Madame Bouïsse, are you here?"
"Not only Madame Bouïsse, but an intruder who implores forgiveness,"
said Hortense, with a frank smile, but a heightened color.
I bowed profoundly. No need to tell her she was welcome--my face spoke
for me.
"It was Madame Bouïsse who lured me in," continued she, "to look at that
painting."
"_Mais, oui!_ I told mam'selle you had her portrait in your
sitting-room," laughed the fat _concierge,_ leaning on her broom. "I'm
sure it's quite like enough to be hers, bless her sweet face!"
I felt myself turn scarlet. To hide my confusion I took the picture
down, and carried it to the window.
"You will see it better by this light," I said, pretending to dust it
with my handkerchief. "It is worth a close examination."
Hortense knelt down, and studied it for some moments in silence.
"It must be a copy," she said, presently, more to herself than me--"it
must be a copy."
"It _is_ a copy," I replied. "The original is at the Château de Sainte
Aulaire, near Montlhéry."
"May I ask how you came by it?"
"A friend of mine, who is an artist, copied it."
"Then it was done especially for you?"
"Just so."
"And, no doubt, you value it?"
"More than anything I possess!"
Then, fearing I had said too much, I added:--
"If I had not admired the original very much, I should not have wished
for a copy."
She shifted the position of the picture in such a manner that, standing
where I did, I could no longer see her face.
"Then you have seen the original," she said, in a low tone.
"Undoubtedly--and you?"
"Yes, I have seen it; but not lately."
There was a brief pause.
"Madame Bouïsse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle," I said,
timidly, "that it might almost be your portrait."
"I can believe it," she answered. "It is very like my mother."
Her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in her
hands, and wept silently.
Madame Bouïsse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she
was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed,
believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a
formal declaration.
"Alas! mademoiselle," I said, hesitatingly, "I little thought..."
She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said,
kindly--
"It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of the
portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still
more nearly. I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs.
It is not often that they rise to the surface."
I raised her hand reverently to my lips.
"But you are looking worn and ill yourself," she added. "Is anything the
matter?"
"Not now," I replied. "But I have been up all night, and--and I am very
tired."
"Was this in your professional capacity?"
"Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than an
active agent--and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene."
She sighed, and shook her head.
"You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student,"
she said, kindly. "Instead of prescribing for others, you need some one
to prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go to
bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours."
"I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bouïsse is gone; but
I must be up and out again at six."
"Nay, that is in three hours."
"I cannot help it. It is my duty."
"Then I have no more to say. Would you drink some lemonade, if I made it
for you?"
"I would drink poison, if you made it for me!"
"A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room.