THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
The marvellous change in the bearing of Gaston de Bois, by which Maurice
was struck, had been wrought by a triad of agents. A man who had passed
his life in indolent seclusion, who had plunged into a tangled labyrinth
of abstruse books, not in search of valuable knowledge, but to lose in
its mazes the recollection of valueless hours; who had allowed his days
to drag on in aimless monotony; who had fallen into melancholy because
he lacked a healthy stimulus to rouse his faculties out of their
life-deadening torpidity; who had allowed his nervous diffidence to gain
such complete mastery over him that it tied his tongue, and clouded his
vision, and confused his brain; who had despised himself because he was
keenly conscious that his existence was purposeless and
profitless;--this man, subjected to the sudden impetus of an occupation
for which his mental acquirements and sedentary habits alike fitted him,
found his new life a revelation. He had emerged from the dusty, beaten,
grass-withered path his feet had spiritlessly trodden from earliest
youth, and entered a field of bloom and verdure where the very stir of
the atmosphere exhilarated, where the labor to be performed called
dormant capacities into play and tested their strength, where each day's
achievement gave the delightful assurance of latent powers within
himself hitherto unrecognized,--in a word, where his manhood was
developed through the regenerating virtue, the glorious might, the
blessed privilege of _work!_
The second cause which had contributed to bring about the happy
metamorphosis in Gaston de Bois sprang out of the hope-inspiring words
Madeleine had dropped on that day which closed so darkly on the duke's
orphan daughter. Those few, passing, precious words had fallen like
fructuous seed and struck deep root in Gaston's spirit; and, as the
germs shot upward, every branch was covered with blossoms of hope which
perfumed his nights and days. He dared to believe that Bertha did not
look upon him with disdain,--that she sympathized with the misfortune
which debarred him from free intercourse with society,--that a deeper
interest might emanate from this compassionate regard. The possibility
of becoming worthy of her no longer appeared a dream so wild and
baseless; but he was too modest, too distrustful of himself, to have
given that golden dream entertainment had it not been inspired by
Madeleine's kindly breath.
The third cause which combined with the two just mentioned to
revolutionize his character will unfold itself hereafter.
The more cognizant M. de Bois became that powerful influences were
vivifying, strengthening, and bringing order out of confusion in his own
mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disordered mental
condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental
encounter in the street he called repeatedly at the lodgings of the
viscount, but never once found him at home. Half discouraged, yet
unwilling to abandon the hope of an interview, he persisted in his
fruitless visits. One morning, to his unbounded satisfaction, when he
inquired of the _concierge_ if M. de Gramont was within, an affirmative
answer was returned. Gaston could hardly credit the welcome
intelligence, and involuntarily repeated the question.
"Ah, yes, poor young gentleman! he's not likely to be out again soon!"
replied his informant, in a pitying tone.
Without waiting for an explanation of the mysterious words, M. de Bois
quickly ascended to the fifth story, and, being admitted into the
antechamber by a neat-looking domestic, knocked at the door of the
apartment which was indicated to him.
The voice of a stranger bade him enter. He turned the doorknob with
shaking hand. The room was so small that it could be taken in at a
single glance. It was a plain, almost furniture-less apartment. In the
narrow bed lay Maurice. His eyes--those great, blue eyes which so
strongly resembled Bertha's--were glittering with the wild lights of
delirium; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to scorch his parched
lips. The fair, clustering curls were matted and tangled about his brow;
his arms were tossing restlessly about. He sprang up into a sitting
posture as Gaston appeared at the door, and gazed at him eagerly; then
stared around, peering into every corner of the chamber, as though in
quest of some one. Those searching glances were followed by a look of
blank despair that settled heavily upon his pain-contracted features as
he sank back and closed his eyes.
Beside the bed sat a woman, clad in the shapeless dress of black serge,
and wearing the widely projecting white bonnet and cape, black veil,
white band across the brow, and beneath the chin, which compose the
attire of a sister _de bon secours_. She was one of that community of
self-abnegating women, who, bound by holy vows, devote their lives to
the care of the suffering, and are the most skilful, tender, and zealous
nurses that France affords.
Just beyond the good "sister" stood a young man, poring over a piece of
paper, which had the appearance of a medical prescription: a
spirited-looking youth, whose harmonious and intellectual cast of
features was heightened to rare beauty by richly mellow coloring, and
the silken curves of a beard and moustache unprofaned by a
razor,--curves softly traced above the fresh, rubious lips, and
gracefully deepening about the cheeks and chin,--curves that disappear
forever when the civilized barbarism of shaving has been accepted.
He came forward when M. de Bois entered, and accosted him in an earnest,
rapid tone.
"I hope, sir, you are a friend of this gentleman. Am I right in my
supposition?"
"Yes--yes--what--what has happened?" asked M. de Bois, his countenance
plainly betokening his alarm.
"I occupy the adjoining apartment," continued the stranger. "My name is
Walton. Three nights ago I was startled by the sound of some object
falling heavily near my door, followed by a deep groan. I found this
gentleman lying on the ground, apparently insensible. I carried him into
his chamber, laid him upon the bed, and summoned the _concierge_. The
name inscribed upon her book is the Viscount Maurice de Gramont, and his
last residence the château of his father, Count Tristan de Gramont, in
Brittany, near Rennes. I took upon myself the responsibility of calling
a physician,--Dr. Dupont,--and, through his advice, of engaging this
good 'sister,' one of the '_soeurs de bon secours_,' as a nurse. Dr.
Dupont wrote to his patient's father; but no answer has been received. I
have been with your friend very constantly. You perceive he has a raging
fever; he talks a great deal, but too incoherently to be able to answer
any questions or to give any directions."
This information was communicated with a quick, energetic intonation,
while the speaker stood fanning Maurice, and preventing the hand which
he flung about from striking against the wall. There was a confident
rapidity in the stranger's movements, a vigorous manliness and
self-dependence in his bearing, strikingly dissimilar to the deportment
which usually characterizes young Parisians at the same age. Though he
spoke the French language with fluent correctness, a slightly foreign
accent betrayed to M. de Bois that he was not a native of France.
Gaston thanked him as warmly as his troublesome impediment permitted,
and said that he would himself write to the Count de Gramont. Then,
bending over his friend, took his hot, unquiet hand, and spoke to him
again and again. His voice failed to touch any chord of memory and cause
it to vibrate in recognition. Maurice was muttering the same word over
and over; Gaston hardly needed to bow his head to catch the imperfect
sound; he knew, before he heard distinctly, that it was the name of
"Madeleine."
"Had you not better write your letter _immediately_?" asked young
Walton. "Will you walk into my room? I do not see any writing materials
here. Mine are at your service."
Gaston, as he followed the stranger into the adjoining chamber, could
not but be struck by the easy, off-hand, decided manner in which he
spoke, and the promptitude with which he desired to accomplish the work
to be done.
Mr. Walton's sitting-room, which was separated from his bed-chamber, was
much larger than the apartment of Maurice. It had an air of great
comfort, if not of decided elegance, and testified to the literary and
artistic taste of its occupant. The walls were decorated with fine
photographic views, and some early efforts in painting. Here stood an
easel, holding an unfinished picture; there an open piano; further on a
convenient writing-table; in the centre another table covered with books
and portfolios; materials for writing and sketching were scattered about
with a bachelor's disregard for order.
"I will clear you a space here," said he, sweeping the contents of one
table upon another, already overburdened. "Everything is in confusion;
for I have been working at odd moments. I could not make up my mind to
go to the studio. I would not leave that poor fellow until somebody
claimed him. What an interesting face he has! If he were only better, I
would make a sketch. His countenance is just my beau ideal of the young
Saxon knight in a historical picture I am painting. A man always finds
materials for art just beneath his hand, if he only has wit and thrift
to stoop and gather them as he goes. But I fear I am interrupting you.
Make yourself at home. I will leave you while you are writing. Really, I
cannot express how glad I am that you have come at last. I have been
looking for you--that is, for somebody who knew M. de Gramont--every
moment for two days."
After drawing back the curtains to give M. de Bois more light, and
glancing around to see that he was supplied with all he could require,
the young artist returned to the apartment of Maurice.
Ronald Walton was born of South Carolinian parents,--their only child.
His boyhood was not passed in a locality calculated to develop artistic
instincts, nor had his education afforded him artistic advantages, nor
had he been thrown into a sphere of artistic associates; yet from the
time his tiny fingers could hold brush or pencil he had seized upon
engravings of romantic scenery, copied them upon an enlarged scale, and
painted them in oil, to the astonishment of his parents and friends.
When his young companions extracted enjoyment from fish-hook and gun,
and hilariously filled game-bags and fishing-baskets, he sat quietly
drinking in a higher, more humane delight before his easel. These
tastes, as they strengthened, caused his father, though a liberal and
cultivated man, severe disappointment. At times he was even disposed to
place a compulsory check upon his son's artist proclivities; but the
soft, persuasive voice of the gentle, refined, clear-sighted mother
interposed. She had made the most loving study of her child's character,
and had faith in his fitness for the vocation he desired to adopt. She
pleaded that his obvious gift might be tested, and proved spurious or
genuine, before it was trampled under foot as unworthy of recognition;
and her heart-wisdom finally prevailed.
Ronald was sent to Paris to study under a distinguished master. During
three years he had made golden use of his opportunities. He was
remarkable among his fellow-students for his indomitable perseverance,
and his power of concentrating all his thoughts upon his work. He
experienced a desire to attain excellence for _its own sake_, not for
the petty ambition of _excelling others_. Thus he became very popular
among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever
awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined
to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation
for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was
nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love
of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which
the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and
perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly
floated through his brain.
The young Carolinian was called an enthusiast even by his French
fellow-students, with whom enthusiasm is an inheritance; but his
enthusiasm was allied to a severely critical taste,--a rare combination;
and being grafted upon the tree of _practicability_, indigenous to the
soil of his young country, it brought down his ideal conceptions into
actual execution.
The philosopher of the present day scouts at _enthusiasm_; but what
agent is half so mighty in giving the needful spur to genius? Enthusiasm
kindles a new flame in the chilled soul when the ashes of disappointment
have extinguished its fires; enthusiasm reinvigorates and braces the
spirit that has become weary and enervated in the oppressive atmosphere
of uncongenial _entourage_; enthusiasm is the cool, refreshing breeze of
a warm climate and the blazing log of a cold. Ronald's unexhausted
enthusiasm was the secret fountain whose waters nourished laurels for
him in the gardens of success.
M. de Bois, when he had concluded his letter, found the art-student at
the bedside of Maurice.
"I will post your letter, if you please," said Ronald; "then I will make
a moment's descent into the studio, or some of those noisy madcaps will
be rushing here after me. I will return, however, before long, if you
have no objection."
Hardly waiting for M. de Bois's courteous, but rather slowly-expressed
acknowledgment, he hurried away.
For a couple of hours Gaston sat beside Maurice, listening to his
indistinct ravings, and tracing out that striking likeness to a
countenance he had studied too closely for his own peace. Now and then
he exchanged a word or two with the good "sister," as she moistened the
lips, or bathed the brow of the sufferer.
The doctor came, but pronounced his patient no better, and threw out a
hint that he had some fears the fever was taking the form of typhus;
adding a warning in regard to the danger of infection. That intelligence
had no influence upon Gaston, who resolved to pass as many hours as
possible with his friend. Nor did it affect Ronald Walton, when he
returned and heard the physician's verdict.
The two young men for the next four days alternately shared the duties
of the holy "sister."
The postal arrangements between Paris and Rennes chanced, at that
moment, to be very imperfect; the letter of Dr. Dupont never reached its
destination, and that of M. de Bois was delayed on its route. It was not
until the fifth day after it was posted that Count Tristan, who obeyed
the summons with all haste, arrived in Paris. His son had never once
evinced sufficient consciousness to recognize Gaston de Bois, but, the
instant the count was ushered into the room, was seized with a fit of
frenzy, and broke forth in a torrent of reproaches, upbraided his father
with the ruin and death of Madeleine, charged him with having wrought
the destruction of his own son, and warned him that he had brought utter
desolation upon his ancestral home.
Dr. Dupont, who entered the room during this paroxysm, suggested to the
count the propriety of withdrawing. The latter, although every word
Maurice uttered inflicted a deadly pang, could not, at first, be induced
to tear himself away. The doctor was resolute in pronouncing his
sentence of banishment, and declared that the viscount's life might be
the sacrifice if he were subjected to further excitement.
We will not attempt to portray the poignant sufferings of the count,
who, in spite of his wiliness and worldliness, was passionately attached
to his only child,--the central axis upon which all his hopes, his
schemes, his whole world moved.
Several times, while the invalid was sleeping, his father ventured to
steal into the chamber; but, by some strange species of magnetism, his
very sphere seemed to affect the slumberer, who invariably awoke, and
recognized, or partially recognized him, and burst out anew in violent
denunciations, to which respect would never have allowed him to give
utterance, except under the stimulus of delirium. The count writhed and
shrank beneath the fierce stabbing of those incisive words, and, in his
ungovernable grief, flung himself beside the son, whom he feared death
would shortly snatch from his arms, pouring forth assurances Maurice
would once have hailed as words of life, but which now fell powerless
upon his unheeding ears. While Count Tristan's overwhelming anguish
lasted, there was no promise he would not have made to purchase his
son's restoration, and no promise he would not have broken, if interest
prompted, when the peril was past.
After one of these agitating interviews, the doctor's edict entirely
closed the door of the patient's chamber against the count, who was
forced to admit the wisdom of the order.
Gaston de Bois and Ronald Walton, between whom a pleasant intimacy was
springing up, continued to watch by the bed of Maurice. Another
fortnight passed, and though he lay, as it were, in a grave of fire, the
doctor's prediction of typhus fever was not verified. At the expiration
of this period, Ronald was the first to notice a favorable change, and
to discover that the invalid had lucid intervals which showed his reason
was reascending her abdicated throne. But he abstained from pointing out
the improvement to Gaston, fearing that, in his joy, he might
communicate the consolatory intelligence to the count, who would then
insist upon seeing his son, and possibly reproduce the evil results by
which his former visits had been attended.
Maurice had ceased to moan and mutter, and lay motionless as one
thoroughly exhausted. He slept much, waking for but a few moments, and
sinking again into a species of half-lethargy. There was something
inexpressibly sweet and pleasant in his present calmness; his mind
seemed to have been mysteriously soothed and satisfied; the turbulent
waves, that dashed him hither and thither against the sharp rocks of
doubt and fear, had subsided. His features, especially when he slept,
wore an expression of the most serene contentment.
The _soeur de bon secours_, who had watched him through the night, had
yielded her place to the "sister," who assumed the office of nurse
during the day. Gaston entered soon after, and, finding the patient
gently slumbering, sat down beside his bed. After a time, Maurice
stirred, drew a long breath, and slowly opened his eyes. They met those
of his watcher. For some time the invalid gazed at him without speaking,
and then said, in a tone that was hardly audible,--
"M. de Bois."
"My dear Maurice--dear friend--you are better,--you know me at last,"
exclaimed Gaston, joyfully.
"I knew you before; you have been the most faithful of friends and
nurses. I knew you quite well, and I knew _her_ too!"
Gaston bounded from his chair, breathing so hard that he could scarcely
stammer out, "Her! who--o--o--om do you me--e--ean?"
"Madeleine," replied Maurice, confidently.
"Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine; you are dream--eaming!"
"No! I thought so at first, and the dream was so sweet that I would not
break it by word or motion, fearing that I should discover it was not
reality. But it was no _dream_. Night after night,--how many I do not
know--I could not count,--I have seen Madeleine beside me! When the good
'sister' moved about the room, in the dim light of the _veilleuse_, in
spite of her coarse, unshapely garb, I recognized the outlines of
Madeleine's form; notwithstanding the uncouth bonnet, and the white
bandage that concealed her hair and brow, and, passing beneath her chin,
almost hid her face, I recognized the features of Madeleine. I watched
her as she glided about the room, and with her delicate, noiseless,
rapidly moving touch created the most perfect order around her. I heard
her as she softly sang sweet anthems, and I could not mistake the voice
of Madeleine. I felt her hand, her cool, fresh, velvety hand, upon my
burning forehead, and it soothed me deliciously. I lay with closed eyes
as she bathed my temples, and passed her fingers through my hair to
loosen its tangles. I was afraid of frightening her away, or finding I
saw but a vision. The water she held to my lips was nectar; when she
smoothed my pillow, all pain passed from the temples that rested upon
it, throbbing with agony before, and I sank into a sweet slumber,--not
unconscious slumber: I knew that I was sleeping; I knew that Madeleine
sat there, filling the place of the sister of charity; I knew that when
I opened my eyes I should see her,--_and I did_, again and again. I
never once spoke to her; I feared some spell would be broken if I
breathed her name. In the morning she disappeared; but I knew she would
come again at midnight, when all was quiet, and the light was carefully
shaded. M. de Bois, my dear Gaston, I tell you _I have seen Madeleine!_"
M. de Bois sat still, looking too much astounded to utter a word.
"I see you cannot believe me," Maurice continued. "She never came while
you were here, and so you think it is a dream. A happy dream! a dream
full of the balm of Gilead! for she has cured me! My brain was a burning
volcano until her hand was laid upon my brow, and I gazed in her face,
and knew it was no phantom. Do not look so much distressed, my dear
Gaston. I am perfectly in my senses."
M. de Bois did not contradict him. Perhaps he remembered the good rule
of never opposing a sick man's vagaries. After a pause he said,--
"Maurice, since you are quite yourself, would you not like to see your
father?"
The wan face of Maurice flushed slightly.
"Is he here?"
"Yes, he has been here for more than a fortnight. The doctor forbade his
entering. Will you not see him now?"
The invalid assented languidly. He had perhaps spoken too much and
overtaxed his strength.
The joy of Count Tristan was deep and voiceless when he was once more
permitted to embrace his son. He was so fearful of touching upon some
painful chord, and of again hearing those frantic ravings, that he had
no language at his command. Maurice, in a faint tone, inquired after his
grandmother and Bertha, and then seemed too weary to prolong the
conversation. Glad at heart, as the count could not but feel, at the
wonderful improvement in his son, he was ill at ease in his presence,
and seemed always to have some haunting dread upon his mind. It was a
relief when the doctor forbade his patient to converse, and hinted that
the count should make his visits very brief.
The next day, when M. de Bois entered, Maurice greeted him in a mournful
tone.
"She did not come last night. I watched for her in vain. The 'sister,'
yonder, went as usual at midnight, and came back in the morning; but,
during the night, a stranger took her place."
What could M. de Bois answer? He gave a sigh of sympathy, but did not
attempt to make any comment.
"She knows perhaps that my father is here, and she will come no more for
fear of being discovered. But I have _seen her_, Gaston! I know I have
seen her! I could not have lived if I had not. And her countenance was
not sad,--it wore a look of patient hope that lent a glory to her face.
The very remembrance of that saint-like expression put to shame the
despair to which I have yielded."
"I--I--I--am"--
M. de Bois could get no further. If he meant to use any argument to
persuade Maurice that it was only a vision, conjured up by his fevered
imagination, which he had seen, the attempt would have been vain.
Maurice clung to the belief that he had really beheld Madeleine, and
that conviction soothed, strengthened, and reanimated him.