When the doctor entered the room Bertha was beside the patient. The
first thing that met M. Roger's eyes was her graceful form, like those
of the angels in German legends bending forward to receive the souls
of the dying. He knew her at once, for he was rarely called to the
cottages of the poor that he did not find either her or her sister
between death and the dying.
"Oh, doctor," she said, "come quick! poor Tinguy is delirious."
The patient was under much excitement. The doctor went to him.
"Come, friend," said he, "be calm."
"Let me alone! let me alone!" cried Tinguy. "I must get up; they want
me at Montaigu."
"No, dear Tinguy," said Bertha, "no; they are not expecting you just
yet."
"Yes, mademoiselle; yes, they are! It was for
to-night. Who will go from house to house and carry the news if I'm
not there?"
"Hush, Tinguy, hush!" said Bertha; "remember you are ill, and Doctor
Roger is here."
"Doctor Roger, is one of us, mademoiselle; we can talk before him. He
knows they are waiting for me; he knows I must get up at once. I must
go to Montaigu."
Doctor Roger and the young girl looked at each other.
"_Massa_," said the doctor.
"_Marseille_," replied Bertha.
And then, with a spontaneous movement, they shook hands.
Bertha returned to the patient.
"Yes," she said, bending to his ear, "you are right. The doctor is one
of us; but there is some one else here who is not." She lowered her
voice so that only Tinguy could hear. "And that," she added, "is the
young Baron Michel."
"Ah, true," said the goodman. "Don't let him hear anything. Courtin is
a traitor. But if I don't go to Montaigu, who will?"
"Jean Oullier. Don't worry, Tinguy."
"Oh! if Jean Oullier will go," said the sick man,--"if Jean Oullier
will go I need not. His foot's good, and his eye true; he can fire
straight, he can!"
And he burst out laughing; but in that laugh he seemed to expend his
last vital strength and fell backward on the bed.
The young baron had listened to this dialogue (of which he could only
hear portions) without in the least understanding it. All he
distinctly made out was, "Courtin is a traitor," and from the
direction of the young girl's eye as she spoke with the peasant he was
certain that they were talking of him. His heart contracted; they had
some secret in which they would not let him share. He went up to
Bertha.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "if I am in your way, or if you have no
further need of me, say the word and I retire."
He spoke in a tone of so much pain that Bertha was touched.
"No," she said, "stay. We need you still; you must help Rosine to
prepare M. Roger's prescriptions while I talk with him about the
case." Then to the doctor she said, in a low voice, "Keep them busy,
and you can tell me what you know, and I will tell you what I know."
Turning again to Michel she added, in her sweetest voice, "I know, my
dear friend, that you will be willing to help Rosine."
"As long as you wish, mademoiselle; give your orders and I will obey
them," said the young man.
"You see, doctor," said Bertha, smiling, "you have two willing
helpers."
The doctor went out to his vehicle and returned with a bottle of
Sedlitz water and a package of mustard.
"Here," he said to Michel, giving him the bottle, "uncork that and
make him drink half a glassful every ten minutes. And you, Rosine,"
giving her the mustard, "mix that into a paste with hot water; it is
to be put on the soles of your father's feet."
The sick man had dropped back into the state of apathetic indifference
which preceded the excitement Bertha had calmed by assuring him that
Jean Oullier would take his place. The doctor cast a look at him, and
seeing that in his present state of quiescence he could safely be left
to the care of the young baron, he went eagerly up to Bertha.
"Mademoiselle de Souday," he said, "since it seems that we hold the
same opinions, what news have you?"
"Madame left Massa on the 21st of last April, and she ought to have
landed at Marseille on the 29th or 30th. This is now the 6th of May.
Madame must have disembarked, and the whole South ought by this time
to have risen."
"Is that all you know?" asked the doctor.
"Yes, all," replied Bertha.
"You have not read the evening papers of the 3d?"
"We do not get any papers at the château de Souday," she said.
"Well," said the doctor, "the whole thing failed."
"Is it possible! Failed?"
"Yes, Madame was utterly misled."
"Good God! what are you telling me?"
"The exact truth. Madame, after a prosperous voyage in the 'Carlo
Alberto,' landed on the coast at some little distance from Marseille.
A guide awaited her and took her to a lonely house in the woods.
Madame had only six persons with her--"
"Oh! go on; go on!"
"She sent one of those persons to Marseille to inform the leader of
the movement that she had landed and was awaiting the result of the
promises which had brought her to France--"
"Well?"
"That evening the messenger came back with a note, congratulating the
princess on her safe arrival, and saying that Marseille would rise on
the following day--"
"Yes; what then?"
"The next day an attempt was made, but Marseille would not rise at
all. The people would take no part in the affair, which failed
utterly."
"And Madame?"
"It is not known where she is; but they hope she
re-embarked on the 'Carlo Alberto.'"
"Cowards!" muttered Bertha. "I am nothing but a woman; but oh! I swear
to God that if Madame comes into La Vendée I will set an example to
some men. Good-bye, doctor, and thank you."
"Must you go?"
"Yes; it is important that my father should know this news. He is at a
meeting to-night at the château de Montaigu. I must get back to
Souday. I commit my poor patient to you. Leave exact directions, and I
or my sister, unless something unforeseen prevents, will be here
to-morrow and watch at night."
"Will you take my carriage? I can get back on foot, and you can return
it by Jean Oullier, or any one, to-morrow."
"Thank you, no; I don't know where Jean Oullier may be to-morrow.
Besides, I prefer walking; the air will do me good."
Bertha held out her hand to the doctor, pressed his with almost
masculine strength, threw her mantle over her shoulders, and left the
cottage. At the door she found Michel, who, although he could not hear
the conversation, had kept his eye on the young girl, and, seeing that
she was about to depart, got to the door before her.
"Ah! mademoiselle," he exclaimed, "what has happened? What have you
just heard?"
"Nothing," said Bertha.
"Nothing! If you had heard nothing you would not be starting off in
such a hurry, without a word to me,--without so much as signing to
me, or saying good-bye."
"Why should I say good-bye, inasmuch as you are going with me? When we
reach the gate of Souday will be time enough to bid you good-bye."
"What! will you allow me?"
"To accompany me? Certainly. After all you have done for me this
evening, it is your right, my dear Monsieur Michel,--that is, unless
you are too fatigued."
"I, mademoiselle, too fatigued, when it is a matter of accompanying
you! With you, or with Mademoiselle Mary, I would go to the end of the
world. Fatigued? Heavens, no!"
Bertha smiled, murmuring to herself, "What a pity he is not one of
us!" Then she added under her breath, "One could do as one pleased
with a nature like his."
"Are you speaking?" said Michel. "I did not quite catch what you say."
"I spoke very low."
"Why do you speak low?"
"Because what I was saying cannot be said out
loud,--not yet, at least."
"But later?"
"Ah! later, perhaps--"
The young man in turn moved his lips, and made no sound.
"What does that pantomime mean?" asked Bertha.
"It means that I can speak below my breath as you do, with this
difference, that what I say low I am ready to say out loud and
instantly,--at this very moment if I dared--"
"I am not a woman like other women," said Bertha, with an almost
disdainful smile; "and what is said to me in a low voice may equally
well be said aloud."
"Well then, what I was saying below my breath was this; I grieve to
see you flinging yourself into danger,--danger as certain as it is
useless."
"What danger are you talking about, my dear neighbor?" said the girl,
in a slightly mocking tone.
"That about which you were speaking to Doctor Roger just now. An
uprising is to take place in La Vendée."
"Really?"
"You will not deny that, I think."
"I?--why should I deny it?"
"Your father and you are taking part in it."
"You forget my sister," said Bertha, laughing.
"No, I forget no one," said Michel, with a sigh.
"Go on."
"Let me tell you--as a tender friend, a devoted friend--that you are
wrong."
"And why am I wrong, my tender, my devoted friend," asked Bertha, with
the tinge of satire she could never quite eliminate from her nature.
"Because La Vendée is not in 1832 what she was in 1793; or rather,
because there is no longer a Vendée."
"So much the worse for La Vendée! But, happily, there is always the
Noblesse,--you don't yet know, Monsieur Michel, but your children's
children in the sixth generation will know the meaning of the words
NOBLESSE OBLIGE."
The young man made a hasty movement.
"Now," said Bertha, "let's talk of something else; for on this topic I
will not say another word, inasmuch as you are not--as poor Tinguy
says--one of us."
"But," said the young man, hurt by Bertha's tone toward him, "what
shall we talk about?"
"Why, anything,--everything. The night is magnificent, talk to me of
the night; the moon is brilliant, talk of the moon; the stars are
dazzling, tell me about the stars; the heavens are pure, let us talk
of the heavens."
She raised her head and let her eyes rest on the clear and starry
firmament. Michel sighed; he said nothing, and walked on beside her.
What could he say--that man of books and city walls--about the nature
that seemed her fitting kingdom? Had he, like Bertha, been in contact
from his infancy with the wonders of creation? Had he watched, like
her, the gradations through which the dawn ascends and the sun sinks
down? Did his ear know, like hers, the mysterious sounds of night?
When the lark rang out its reveille did he know what the lark was
saying? When the gurgle of the nightingale filled the darkness with
harmony could he tell what that throat was uttering? No, no. He knew
the things of science, which Bertha did not know; but Bertha knew the
things of nature, and of all such things he was ignorant. Oh! if the
young girl had only spoken then, how religiously his heart would have
listened to her.
But, unfortunately, she was silent. Her heart was full of thoughts
which escaped in looks and sighs, and not in sounds and words.
He, too, was dreaming. He walked beside the gentle Mary, not the
harsh, firm Bertha; instead of the self-reliant Bertha, he felt the
weaker Mary leaning on his arm. Ah! if she were only there words would
come; all the thousand things of the night--the moon, the stars, the
sky--would have rushed to his lips. With Mary he would have been the
teacher and the master; with Bertha he was the scholar and the slave.
The two young people walked silently side by side for more than a
quarter of an hour, when suddenly Bertha stopped and made a sign to
Michel to stop also. The young man obeyed; with Bertha his place was
to obey.
"Do you hear?" said Bertha.
"No," said Michel, shaking his head.
"Well, I hear," she said, her eyes gleaming and her ears alert, as she
strained them eagerly.
"What do you hear?"
"My horse's step and that of my sister Mary's horse. They are coming
for me. Something must have happened." She listened again. "Mary has
come herself."
"How can you tell that?" asked the young man.
"By the way the horses gallop. Let us walk faster, please."
The sounds came nearer, and in less than five minutes a dark group
showed in the distance. Soon it was seen to be two horses,--a woman
riding one and leading the other.
"I told you it was my sister," said Bertha.
The young man had already recognized her, less by her person, scarcely
distinguishable in the darkness, than by the beating of his heart.
Mary, too, had recognized him, and this was plain from the gesture of
amazement which escaped her. It was evident that she expected to find
her sister alone or with Rosine,--certainly not with the young baron.
Michel saw the impression his presence had produced, and he advanced.
"Mademoiselle," he said to Mary, "I met your sister on her way to
carry assistance to poor Tinguy, and in order that she might not be
alone I have accompanied her."
"You did perfectly right, monsieur," replied Mary.
"You don't understand," said Bertha, laughing. "He thinks he must
excuse me or excuse himself. Do forgive him for something; his mamma
is going to scold him." Then leaning on Mary's saddle, and speaking
close to her ear, "What is it, darling?" she asked.
"The attempt at Marseille has failed."
"I know that; and Madame has re-embarked."
"That's a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. Madame declares that as she is in France she will stay."
"Can it be true?"
"Yes; and she is now on her way to La Vendée,--in fact, she may
actually be here now."
"How did you hear all this?"
"Through a message received from her to-night at the château de
Montaigu, just as the meeting was about to break up disheartened."
"Gallant soul!" cried Bertha, enthusiastically.
"Papa returned home at full gallop, and finding where you were, he
told me to take the horses and fetch you."
"Well, here I am!" said Bertha, putting her foot into the stirrup.
"Are not you going to bid good-bye to your poor knight?"
"Oh, yes," said Bertha, holding out her hand to the young man, who
advanced to take it slowly and sadly.
"Ah! Mademoiselle Bertha," he murmured, taking her hand, "I am very
unhappy."
"Why?" she asked.
"Not to be, as you said just now, one of you."
"What prevents it?" said Mary, holding out her hand to him.
The young man darted on that hand and kissed it in a passion of love
and gratitude.
"Oh! yes, yes, yes," he murmured, so low that Mary alone could hear
him; "for you, mademoiselle, and with you."
Mary's hand was roughly torn from his grasp by a sudden movement of
her horse. Bertha, in touching hers, had struck that of her sister on
the flank. Horses and riders, starting at a gallop, were soon lost
like shadows in the darkness.
The young man stood motionless in the roadway.
"Adieu!" cried Bertha.
"Au revoir!" cried Mary.
"Yes, yes, yes," he said, stretching his arms toward their vanishing
figures; "yes, au revoir! au revoir!"
The two girls continued their way without uttering a word, until they
reached the castle gate, and there Bertha said, abruptly:--
"Mary, I know you will laugh at me!"
"Why?" asked Mary, trembling.
"I love him!" replied Bertha.
A cry of pain had almost escaped from Mary's lips, but she smothered
it.
"And I called to him 'au revoir!'" she whispered to herself. "God
grant I may never, never see him again."