THE PIOUS FRAUD.
The winter passed away, and was succeeded by spring. The warm days of summer were approaching. Dr. Falcon had very soon obtained the conviction that his aunt had little cause for her uneasiness. He had told her so, and had explained to her the real nature of her indisposition. In vain: the erring vestal would on no account be undeceived. Susan and her husband were at length obliged to desist from every attempt to dispel the ridiculous illusion of Aunt Sarah, who threatened that she should begin to doubt the doctor's friendship. She seldom left her bed.
"She makes me uneasy," said Susan to her husband; "at times I almost fancy her cracked."
"And she is so, in every sense of the word," said the doctor. "It is hypochondria,—a fixed idea. My physic is of no avail against the extravagancies of her imagination. I know of nothing I can do, unless it be to drive away one fancy by substituting another. Suppose we pass our child off upon her for her own."
"But will she believe it?"
"If she does not, it is of little consequence."
After a few weeks Susan appeared no longer in Sarah's room—it had been so arranged by the doctor; and our aunt was informed that Susan had had a misfortune.
"Is the child dead?" inquired Sarah.
"Alas!" replied the doctor.
"Alas!" rejoined the aunt.
One day before daybreak, Aunt Sarah was awakened in an unusual manner. Her face was sprinkled with water, and strong scents were held to her nose, till it seemed they were going to send her out of the world by the very means apparently employed to bring her to life again.
She opened her eyes, and saw the doctor busy with her nose.
"Righteous Heaven! I am dying!—You are killing me! Nephew, nephew, what are you doing to my nose?"
"Hush, aunt!—don't speak a word!" said the doctor with a mysterious look; "only tell me how you feel yourself."
"Tolerably well, nephew."
"You have been insensible for four hours, aunt. I was uneasy for your life; but it's all right now,—you are saved. A lovely child—"
"How!" exclaimed Sarah, almost rubbing her nose from her face.
"A sweet little boy. Do you wish to see the pretty fellow? If you will keep yourself tranquil, and not stir a limb, why——"
"But nephew——"
"I have passed it off upon every one in the house for my wife's child."
"Oh, nephew! your prudence, your assistance, your counsel! Oh, you are an angel!"
Falcon went away. Aunt Sarah trembled all over with terror and joy. She looked round her:—on the table were burning lights and countless phials of medicine were strewn around. A woman brought in the baby: it was in a gentle sleep. Sarah spoke not a word, but looked at it long, wept bitterly, kissed the little creature again and again; and, when it had been carried away, she said to the doctor, "It is the living picture of the trumpeter to the French regiment—God be merciful to him! It is his living picture—I say, his living picture!"