THE MISUNDERSTANDING.
The day was closing and Dr. Louis, who was trying to read a medical
tract as he came along in the twilight to the chapel, was vexed at the
interposition of an opaque body to intercept the scanty light.
Raising his head and seeing a man before him, he asked:
“What do you want?”
“Excuse me but is not this Dr. Louis?” asked Philip de Taverney.
“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor shutting his book.
“I should like a word with you---- ”
“Pardon me, but I am in attendance on her Royal Highness the Dauphiness
and---- ”
“But the lady I wish to ask you about is in her household---- ”
“Do you mean Mdlle. de Taverney?”
“Precisely.”
“Aha,” said the doctor quickly, examining the young captain.
“I am afraid she is very bad, for she went off into a swoon more than
once while I was speaking to her this afternoon.”
“Oh, you seem to take this to heart?”
“I love Mdlle. de Taverney more than my life.”
He spoke the words with such exalted brotherly affection that the doctor
was deceived.
“Oh, so it is you who is the lover?” he exclaimed.
Philip fell two steps back, carrying his hand to his brow and becoming
pale as death.
“Mind, sir, you insult my sister!”
“Oh, your sister? excuse me, captain, but your air of mystery, the hour
of your addressing me and the place, all led me into error which I
deplore.”
“Stay, sir; you think that Mdlle. de Taverney has a lover---- ”
“Captain Taverney, I have not said a word of the sort to the Dauphiness,
to your father, or to you--press me no more.”
“On the contrary, we must speak of this. And yet it is impossible. I
should have to give up all the religion of my life: it is accusing an
angel--it is defying heaven! Doctor, let me require you to approve this.
Science may err.”
“Seldom.”
“But, doctor, promise me that you will come and see her when you return
from the Dauphiness? it is the boon the victim would not be refused by
the executioner. You will see her again?”
“It is useless; but I should like to be mistaken. Captain, I will come
and see your sister to-night.”
Dr. Louis was one of those grave and honorable men for whom science is a
holy thing and who study religiously. In a materialistic age he studied
mental maladies: under the husk of the practitioner he had a heart and
that was why he told Philip that he hoped he had erred.
That was why, too, he came to make a more full examination and was true
to his appointment.
Whether by accident or from emotion due to the doctor’s call, Andrea was
seized with one of those fainting fits which had so alarmed her brother,
and she was staggering, with her handkerchief carried to her mouth in
pain.
The doctor assisted her to the sofa and sat down on it beside her. She
was astonished at the second visit of one who had declared the case
insignificant that same morning and still more that he should take her
hand, not like a doctor to feel her pulse, but like a friend. She was
almost going to snatch it away.
“Do you desire to see me, or is it merely the desire of your brother?”
he asked.
“My brother did announce his intention of seeing you; but after your
having said the matter was of no moment I should not have disturbed you
myself.”
“Your brother seems to be excitable, jealous of his honor, and
intractable on some points. I suppose this is why you have not unbosomed
yourself to him?”
Andrea looked at him with supreme haughtiness.
“Allow me to finish. It is natural that seeing the pain of the young
gentleman and foreseeing his anger, you should obstinately keep secret
before him: but towards me, the physician of the soul as well as of the
body, one who sees and knows, you will be spared half the painful road
of revelation and I have the right to expect you will be more frank.”
“Doctor,” replied Andrea, “if I did not see my brother darkened with
true grief and yourself with a reputation of gravity I might believe you
were in a plot to play some comedy with me and to frighten me into
taking some disagreeable medicine.”
“I entreat you, young lady,” said the doctor frowning, “to stop in this
course of dissimulation.”
“Dissimulation?”
“Would you rather I said hypocrisy?”
“Sir, you offend me.”
“You mean that I read you clearly. Will you spare me the pain of making
you blush?”
“I do not understand you,” said the girl, three times, looking at the
doctor with eyes shining with interrogation and defiance, and almost
with menace.
“But I understand you. You doubt science, and you hope to hide your
condition from the world. But, undeceive yourself--with one word I pull
down your pride: you are _enceinte_!”
Andrea uttered a frightful shriek and fell back on the sofa.
This cry was followed by the crash of the door flying open and Philip
bounded into the room, drawing his sword and crying:
“You lie!”
Without letting go the pulse of the fainted woman, the doctor turned
round to the captain.
“I have said what it was my duty to say,” he replied: “and it is not
your sword, in or out of the sheath, which will belie me. I deeply
sorrow for you, young gentleman, for you have inspired as much sympathy
as this girl has aversion by her perseverance in falsehood.”
Andrea made not a movement but Philip started.
“I am father of a family,” went on the doctor, “and I understand what
you must suffer. I promise you my services as I do my discretion. My
word is sacred, and everybody will tell you that I hold it dearer than
my life.”
“This is impossible!”
“It is true. Adieu, Captain.”
When he was gone, Philip shut all the doors and windows, and coming back
to his sister who watched with stupor these ominous preparations, he
said, folding his arms:
“You have cowardly and stupidly deceived me. Cowardly, because I loved
you above all else, and esteemed you, and my trust ought to have induced
your own though you had no affection. Stupidly, because a third person
holds the infamous secret which defames us; because spite of your
cunning, it must have appeared to all eyes; lastly, because if you had
confessed the state to me, I might have saved you from my affection for
you. Your honor, so long as you were not wedded, belongs to all of
us--that is, you have shamed us all.
“Now, I am no longer your brother since you have blotted out the title:
only a man interested in extorting from you by all possible means the
whole secret in order that I may obtain some reparation. I come to you
full of anger and resolution, and I say that you shall be punished as
cowards deserve for having been such a coward as to shelter yourself
behind a lie. Confess your crime, or---- ”
“Threats, to me?” cried the proud Andrea, “to a woman?” And she rose
pale and menacing likewise.
“Not to a woman but to a faithless, dishonored creature.”
“Threats,” continued Andrea, more and more exasperated, “to one who
knows nothing, can understand nothing of this except that you are looked
upon by me as sanguinary madmen leagued to kill me with grief if not
with shame.”
“Aye, you shall be killed if you do not confess,” said Philip. “Die on
the instant, for heaven hath doomed you and I strike at its bidding.”
The convulsively young man convulsively picked up his sword, and applied
the point like lightning to his sister’s breast.
“Yes, kill me!” she screamed, without shrinking at the smart of the
wound.
She was even springing forward, full of sorrow and dementia, and her
leap was so quick that the sword would have run through her bosom but
for the sudden terror of Philip and the sight of a few drops of red on
her muslin at the neck making him draw back.
At the end of his strength and his anger, he dropped the blade and fell
on his knees at her feet. He wound his arms round her.
“No, Andrea,” he cried, “it is I who shall die. You love me no more and
I care for nothing in the world. Oh, you love another to such a degree
that you prefer death to a confession poured out on my bosom. Oh,
Andrea, it is time that I was dead.”
She seized him as he would have dashed away, and wildly embraced him and
covered him with tears and kisses.
“No, Philip, you are right. I ought to die since I am called guilty. But
you are so good, pure and noble, that nobody will ever defame you and
you should live to sorrow for me, not curse me.”
“Well, sister,” replied the young man, “in heaven’s name, for the sake
of our old time’s love, fear nothing for yourself or him you love. I
require no more of you, not even his name. Enough that the man pleased
you, and so he is dear to me.
“Let us quit France. I hear that the King gave you some jewels--let us
sell them and get away together. We will send half to our father and
hide with the other. I will be all to you and you all to me. I love no
one, so that I can be devoted to you. Andrea, you see what I do for you;
you see you may rely on my love. Come, do you still refuse me your
trust? will you not call me your brother?”
In silence, Andrea had listened to all the desperate young man had said:
only the throbbing of her heart indicated life; only her looks showed
reason.
“Philip,” she said after a long pause, “you have thought that I loved
you no longer, poor brother! and loved another man? now I forgive you
all but the belief that I am impious enough to take a false oath. Well,
I swear by high heaven which hears me, by our mother’s soul--it seems
that she has not long enough defended me, alas! that a thought of love
has never distracted my reason. Now, God hath my soul in His holy
keeping, and my body is at your disposal.”
“Then there is witchcraft here,” cried Philip; “I have heard of philters
and potions. Someone has laid a hellish snare for you. Awake, none could
have won this prize--sleeping, they have despoiled you. But we are
together now and you are strong with me. You confide your honor in me
and I shall revenge you.”
“Yes, revenge, for it would be for a crime!” said the girl, with a
sombre glow in her eyes.
“Well let us search out the criminal together,” continued the Knight of
Redcastle. “Have you noticed any one spying you and following you
about--have you had letters--has a man said he loved you or led you to
suppose so--for women have a remarkable instinct in such matters?”
“No one, nothing.”
“Have you never walked out alone?”
“I always had Nicole with me.”
“Nicole? a girl of dubious morals. Have I known all about her escapade?”
“Only that she is supposed to have run away with her sweetheart.”
“How did you part?”
“Naturally enough; she attended to her duties up to nine o’clock when
she arranged my things, set out my drink for the night and went away.”
“Your drink? may she not have mixed something with it?”
“No; for I remember that I felt that strange thrill as I was putting the
glass to my lips.”
“What strange thrill?”
“The same I felt down at our place when that foreign lord Baron Balsamo
came to our home. Something like vertigo, a dazing, a loss of all the
faculties. I was at my piano when I felt all spin and swim around me.
Looking before me I saw the baron reflected in a mirror. I remember no
more except that I found myself waking in the same spot without ability
to reckon how long I had been unconscious.”
“Is this the only time you experienced this feeling?”
“Again on the night of the accident with the fireworks. I was dragged
along with the crowd when suddenly, on the point of being mangled, a
cloud came over my eyes and my rigid arms were extended: through the
cloud I just had time to catch a glimpse of that man. I fell off into a
sleep or swoon then. You know that Baron Balsamo carried me away and
brought me home.”
“Yes; and did you see him again on the night when Nicole fled?”
“No; but I felt all the symptoms which betoken his presence. I went into
sleep; when I woke, I was not on the bed but on the floor, alone, cold
as in death. I called for Nicole but she had disappeared.”
“Twice then you saw this Baron Joseph Balsamo in connection with this
strange sleep: and the third time---- ”
“I divined that he was near,” said Andrea, who began to understand his
inference.
“It is well,” said Philip. “Now you may rest tranquil and abate not your
pride, Andrea: I know the secret. Thank you, dear sister, we are saved!”
He took her in his arms, pressed her affectionately to his heart, and,
borne away by the fire of his determination, dashed out of the rooms
without awaiting or listening for anything.
He ran to the stables, saddled and bridled his steed with his own hands,
and rode off at the top of speed to Paris.