WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
BY RICHARD B. KIMBALL.
EMILIE DE COIGNY AND THE STUDENTS.
A morning at Là Morgue is hardly as agreeable as a day at the Louvre, yet it is not without a certain fascination. Let but the influence once fasten on you, and it will be very hard to shake it off. At one period I confess it was to me almost irresistible, and I shudder sometimes when I recollect how punctually every morning at the same hour I took my place on one side of that fearful room—not for the purpose of inspecting the bodies of the suicides (I rarely turned to look at them), but to regard the countenances of the anxious ones who came to realize the worst, or to take hope till the morrow. Literally there are no spectators in that dismal solitude—if we except an occasional visit from the foreign sight-hunter, who comes in charge of a valet, and passes in and out and away to the "next place." In London or in New-York, an establishment so public would be thronged with persons eager to gratify a prurient curiosity. Not so in Paris. The French possess a sensibility so refined—it may be called a species of delicacy—that they cannot enjoy such a spectacle, can scarcely endure it: and if the tourist will bring the subject to mind, he will recollect that while his guide pointed out the entrance, he himself declined going into the apartment.
I know not how it happened, but, as I have remarked, the habit of visiting this spot every morning, was fastened on me. Never shall I forget some of the faces I encountered there. One image is impressed on me indelibly; it is that of a woman of middle age, with a very pale face, and having the appearance of one struggling with some wearing sorrow, who for two weeks in succession came in daily, and walking painfully up to the partition, looked intently through the lattice work, and turned and went away. I never before felt so strong an impulse to accost a person, without yielding to it. Indeed I had resolved to speak to her on the morning of the fifteenth day, but she did not come and I never saw her again. Who was she? did her fears prove groundless? what became of her? An old man I remember to have seen—a very old man, feeble and decrepit, who came once only, looked at the dead, shook his head despairingly, and tottered away: I know not if he discovered the object of his search. Young girls who had quarrelled with their lovers, and lovers who in moments of jealousy had been cruel to their sweethearts, would look anxiously in, and generally with relieved spirits pass out, almost smilingly, resolving no doubt to make all up before night should again tempt to suicide. Another incident I cannot omit, although it is impossible to recall it without a dreadful pang. One morning a pretty fair-haired child, not more than four years old, came running in, and clasping the wooden bar with one hand, pointed with her little finger through the opening, and with a tone of innocent curiosity said, "There's mamma!" The same moment two or three rushed in, and seizing the unconscious orphan, carried her hastily away. She had wandered after some of the family, and heard enough as they came from the fatal place to lead her to suppose her lost mamma was there, and so she ran to see. What could be the circumstances so untoward, that even the child could not bind the mother to life?
A long chapter might be written of the occurrences at my singular rendezvous, but I had no design, when I began, of alluding to them, and I will only remark here that, leaving Paris some time after for the south of Europe, I got rid of this nightmare impulse, and although I returned the following season I never again entered La Morgue....
It was in the spring when I came back. The foliage was deep and green, and in the Jardin des Plants, which was near my quarters, the various flowers and shrubs and trees filled the atmosphere with fragrance, and tempted us to frequent strolls along its avenues.
"Come with me at six o'clock," said my friend Partridge, "and you shall see an apparition."
"Where?"
"I will not tell you, till we are on the Spot."
"I will go, but hope the rendezvous will be an agreeable one." Just then, I know not why, I thought of La Morgue, and shuddered.
"The most agreeable in all Paris."
This conversation took place in the Hospital de Notre Dame de Pitie, just as we were finishing our morning occupation of following the celebrated Louis through the fever wards. Partridge was my room-mate, and generally a fellow traveller, but I had left him behind in my late tour, to devote himself more entirely to his medical pursuits, while I, to my shame be it spoken, began to tire of the lectures of Broussais, and the teachings of Majendie; and, even now that I had returned, was tempted every day to slip across to the Rue Vivienne, where were staying some fascinating strangers, whose acquaintance I had made en route, and who had begun to engross me too much for any steady progress in my studies; at least so thought Partridge, who shook his head and said it would not do for a student to cross the Seine—he ought to stay in his own quartier; that I had had too much recreation as it was—I should forget the little I know, and as for the Rue Vivienne, and the Boulevard des Italiens, the Rue de la Paix, &c., I must break off all such associations or be read out of the community. I was glad, therefore, to appease my friend by consenting to go with him—I knew not where—and see an apparition.
Accordingly a few minutes before six, we started together on the strange adventure. We passed down the street which leads to the Jardin des Plants, and entering through the main avenue, walked nearly its entire length, when my companion turned into a narrow path, almost concealed by the foliage, which brought us into a small open space. Here he motioned me to stop, and pointing to a rustic bench we both sat down. At the same moment, the chimes from a neighboring chapel pealed the hour of six, and while I was still listening to them, my friend seized my arm and exclaimed in a whisper, "Look!" I cast my eyes across to the other side, and beheld a figure advancing slowly toward us. It was that of a young girl, in appearance scarcely seventeen. Her form was light and graceful, simply draped in a loose robe of white muslin. On her head she wore a straw hat, in which were placed conspicuously a bunch of fresh spring blossoms. The gloves and mantelet seemed to have been forgotten. Her demeanor was one of gentleness and modesty. She cast her eyes around as if expecting to meet a companion, and then quietly sat down on a rude seat not very far from where we were. I remained for ten minutes patiently waiting a demonstration of some kind, either from my companion or the strange appearance near us. But now I began to yield to the influence of the scene. The sun was declining, and cast a mellow and saddening light over the various objects around. Gradually as I gazed on the motionless form of the maiden, I felt impressed with awe, which was heightened by the solemn manner of my friend, who appeared as much under the charm as myself. At length I whispered to him, "For Heaven's sake tell me what does all this mean?" A low "Hush," with an expressive gesture to enforce quiet, was the only response. I made no further attempt to interrupt the silence, but sat spell-bound, always looking at the figure, until I was positively afraid to take my eyes from it. Again the chimes began their peal for the completion of the last quarter. It was seven o'clock. The moment they ceased, the girl rose from her seat, glanced slowly, sadly, earnestly around, pressed her hand across her eyes, and proceeded in the path toward us. We both stood up as she came near; my friend lifted his hat from his head in the most respectful manner as the maiden passed, while she in return gazed vacantly on him, and walking slowly by, disappeared in the direction opposite that from which she came. We did not remain, but proceeded with a quickened pace to our lodgings. Arrived there, I asked for an explanation of what we had witnessed.
"Do you remember," said Partridge, "Alfred Dervilly?"
"Perfectly well. He was your room-mate after I left you last summer, and twenty times I have been on the point of inquiring for him, but something at each moment prevented. Where is he?"
"Dead."
"Dead! How, when?"
"Killed by the apparition yonder."
"Nonsense! Do not talk any more in riddles. Out with what you have to say about Dervilly and the apparition, as you call it, and this afternoon's adventure."
"Bien, let us light the candles, fasten the doors, close the windows, and take a fresh cigar."
This was soon done, and accommodating himself to his seat in a comfortable manner, my companion commenced:
"Yes—you recollect Dervilly of course, and must remember that before you left us we used to joke him about a fair unknown, who was engaging so much of his time."
"I had forgotten—but I now recall the circumstance; I remember, I was walking with him near the 'Garden,' and he made some trivial excuse to leave me and turn into it. You afterwards told me he had an appointment there, but I thought little of it."
"Well, I will give you the story as I now have it, quite complete, for I was partly in Dervilly's confidence, and was with him during his illness and when he died. He was born in Louisiana, of French parents, who, after spending some years in America, returned to their native country. He spoke English fluently, as you know, and when you deserted me we became very intimate. Then it was I learned how deeply the poor fellow was in love, actually in love. No mere transitory emotion—no momentary passion for an adventure—no affair of gallantry, was this: his very being was absorbed—he became wholly changed—it seemed as if he had bound himself, body and soul, to some spirit of another world. I never saw, never read, of so engrossing a feeling. At last he confessed to me. He said he had met, a few months before, at the house of a former friend of his family, who had been of considerable consequence under the previous reign, but was now reduced, and lived in obscurity, a creature of most exquisite shape and feature, who proved on acquaintance to be possessed with a loveliness of character, a modesty, an irresistible charm of manner, which took him captive. Dervilly became completely enamored with Emilie de Coigny. This he discovered to be her name, but on inquiring of the persons at whose house he first met her, he could get no satisfactory information; indeed a very singular reserve, as poor Dervilly thought, was maintained whenever her name was mentioned, so that he could not, in fact, glean the slightest particulars about her. This did not prevent him from confessing his passion, for the girl came frequently to this house, and their acquaintance ripened very fast. Emilie de Coigny felt for the first time that her heart was occupied, and all that restlessness of spirit caused by the unconscious longing of the affections laid at rest, and Alfred Dervilly became the sole object of her thoughts and of her hopes, if hopes she had. All this, I repeat, Emilie de Coigny felt; but, singular to say, she hesitated to confess what was in her heart, even when her lover passionately entreated; it seemed as if something stood between her and happiness, to which she feared to allude. It is not easy to deceive the heart, and Dervilly knew, despite the apparent calmness of Emilie, despite her sometimes cold demeanor, that he was loved in return. But one thing troubled and perplexed him; one thing filled him with vague fears and apprehensions, and checked the ecstatic feelings which were ready to overflow his heart. A mystery hung about this beautiful girl; she claimed no one for her friend, she spoke of no acquaintances, she never alluded to parents, or to brother or sister, or other relation; she made no mention of her home. Besides, a strange sadness, strange in one so young, seemed to possess her, and to pervade her spirit, and while contemplating that imperturbable countenance, Dervilly at times felt an awe come over him for which he could not account, and which for moments subdued even the force of his passion. It appeared to him then, as if he were under a spell; but presently, when a gentle smile illumined her face, her eyes would be turned on him so lovingly, and her look express, as plainly as look could, that all her trust was in him and in him only. Dervilly would forget every thing in the raptures of such moments; indeed in his ecstasy he would be driven almost to madness; for of all characters," continued Partridge, "hers was the one to set a youth of ardent temperament absolutely crazy. So matters advanced, or rather I should say, so time advanced, while affairs did not. It was at this period," said my friend, "that Dervilly gave me his confidence. Our intimacy had gradually increased from the hour of your leaving us, and at length he unbosomed himself completely. My first impression, after hearing his story, was that the pretty mademoiselle was no more nor less than an arrant flirt; that her charms were magnified to a lover's vision, and that the mystery which attended her would turn out to be no mystery at all—so I treated the case lightly, laughed at his description, called Mademoiselle Emilie a coquette, and added, a little seriously, that it was a shame for her to trifle with so warm-hearted a fellow. You know how grating are the disparaging remarks of a friend about one in whom we confess to ourselves a deeper interest than we care to acknowledge. What I had said was kindly intended, but it touched Dervilly to the quick. 'I did not think you capable,' he exclaimed, 'of thus making light of my confidence—I find I was deceived—you are at liberty to make as much sport of me as you will. I have learned a lesson which I shall take care to remember.' 'You must not speak so,' I said,' I really was not serious. I take back every word. I would not wound you for the world—forgive me.' Then we shook hands, and Dervilly assured me I had misjudged his Emilie; he would ask her permission to introduce me, and I should see for myself. The permission was never accorded, although Dervilly urged to Mademoiselle de Coigny, that I was his best and almost his only friend. She was unyielding; she would not see me. Meanwhile his passion increased with every impediment—yet he gained no assurance of its being returned, save what his heart whispered to him. In the Jardin des Plants they were accustomed to meet daily, when the weather was propitious—so much Emilie yielded to her lover—and spend an hour together; and if they could not meet in the open air, they repaired to the house where they first became acquainted. On one occasion Dervilly, unable to bear suspense any longer, seized her hand, and passionately pledged himself, his existence, his soul, his all to Emilie de Coigny; he swore his fate was indissolubly linked with hers, that their destiny could not be severed, and he demanded from her an avowal of the truth of what he said. The violence of Dervilly alarmed her; she drew her hand from his, and looking him steadily in the face, inquired:
"'What has prompted Monsieur to this sudden show of feeling?'
"'Do you ask what?' exclaimed Dervilly; 'it is you. Are you not answered? How can I resist what is inevitable? how curb myself when all hold is lost? Are you then so cruel? Dieu merci! be not so deadly calm—it means the worst for me—be angry, vexed, any thing, but look not on me with that glazed look—it maddens me.'
"'Monsieur Dervilly,' said Emilie, without change of tone or manner, 'what you have said, if it means any thing, means every thing; it means all a maiden longs to hear from lips that are beloved. To respond, I must be assured how far your judgment will confirm what now seems to be a mere passionate ebullition. Excuse me,' she continued, as Dervilly made an impatient gesture; 'I have heard and read of similar protestations which had little true significance.'
"'I accept any conditions,' interrupted the young man, 'and will bless you from the depths of my soul for naming any, even the hardest; yes, the hardest—I care not what, so that they are from you.' The girl regarded Dervilly as if she would search his very nature. 'You are silent—speak; I can no longer contain myself,' exclaimed he, wildly.
"'Monsieur,' once more observed Mademoiselle de Coigny, 'you know not to whom you address yourself; should I tell you, you would retract all those strong words, and hasten to escape in the least humiliating way possible.'
"'Never. Heaven is my witness, never! I care not who you are; I will never seek to know; when you choose, you shall inform me. You need never tell me. I say, I care not, so that you are mine.'
"'And you will be mine for ever?' said the girl, slowly.
"'For ever.'
"'I am yours—yours,' and Emilie de Coigny sunk into the arms of her lover.
"In one instant the fortunes of Dervilly were changed—from despair he was raised to a condition of delicious joy. His raptures were so unnatural, that I cautioned him against such violent indulgence of them. But he was too excited to listen to me. Indeed, I feared he would lose his reason. It seemed as if more than ordinary passion had possession of him, and that it was inspired by something unearthly; and, without ever having seen the girl, I began to attribute to her a supernatural influence. Besides, Dervilly confessed he knew as little of his affianced as before, and that occasionally the same icy look would be turned on him, as it were quite inadvertently, and hold him spell-bound with horror, while it still served to increase his frenzy beyond all bounds. Then, her endearing smiles, her truthful and confiding love, her absolute reliance, her entire dependence, on Dervilly, made him so frantic with happiness, that he lost all capacity to reason.
"The summer passed away, but Dervilly had learned nothing more of the history of his betrothed; she still avoided the subject, and, when he alluded to it, she would beg him to desist, and hide her face in his bosom and weep.
"Strange thoughts at last found their way into his brain, fearful surmises began to disturb his peace, and, when absent from Emilie, he would resolve at their next interview, to insist on knowing all. But when the time came, and he met, turned on him, the open and innocent look of the maiden's clear eyes, which expressed so earnestly how entirely her soul rested on his, all courage failed him, and he could not go on.....
"One evening," continued Partridge, after a pause, and with the tone of a person approaching an unpleasant subject, "One evening, after dinner—I think it was the first week in September—when the day had been excessively sultry, I strolled into the large garden, which you recollect belonged to our old lodgings in the Rue d' Enfer and after a while sat down in the summer-house. Presently little Sophie Lecomte came running out to me, and I remained amusing myself with the child's prattle till it was dark. The moon shone brightly, and I did not perceive how late it was, until reminded of the hour by finding that Sophie was fast asleep in my lap. I rose and carried her into the house, and went quietly to my room. I seated myself near the window without lighting the candles, feeling that the glare would not just then harmonize with my feelings. The truth is, I was thinking of you, and of that romantic passage across the Apennines, and of the fair stranger, and so forth. I sat by the window, the moonlight streaming across the room, over the top of the old chapel, the windows and doors open, and every thing still except the monotonous chirping of a single cricket, louder than that of any French cricket I ever heard before, and which sung the very same song I used to hear when a boy from under the large kitchen hearthstone at home. I began to feel a little lonely, and so started up, and stamped with my feet in order to silence the solitary insect, or arouse the rest of the family, but the old one only sung the harder, and the others would not wake, and I sat down again, and half closed my eyes in order to lose myself, if I could, in some pleasant revery. My eyes were half closed, the perfume from the graperies filled the room, and had a pleasant effect upon my senses, and thus I began to forget where I was and what was about me. Presently I heard a rapid unsteady step along the corridor; it grew more rapid and more unsteady; I raised my head, and at that instant Dervilly hurried into the room. 'I knew it—I knew it,' he exclaimed, wildly; 'one of the sirens sent from hell! I have sold myself, body and soul!—I am lost—lost. Ah! I knew it—I knew it.' Shocked and surprised as I was by such an extraordinary scene, I did not forget that Dervilly was of a most nervous and excitable temperament. I rose, took hold of him kindly, and asked him what had happened. As I placed my hand on his head, I perceived that the veins were distended, and that the carotid and temporal arteries were throbbing violently. I hastened to strike a light, while he continued to repeat nearly the words I have just mentioned, in a wild and incoherent manner. I could now see his countenance, and it seemed as if the destroyer had been ravaging it. His cap was gone. His hair, which was usually so neatly arranged, was tossed over his face in twisted locks; his eyes were fixed, and bloodshot, and sparkling.
"'My dear friend, you are ill—you are excited—let me bring you to your bed' (we occupied the large room in common, with a small bedroom for each, leading from it); with this I took his arm, and gently urged him to his apartment.
"'Not there, not there!' he cried vehemently; 'Have I not lain there, night after night, thinking of her?—have I not dreamed there happy dreams, and seen dear delightful visions? Not there—never—never again!'
"'You shall not,' I said, endeavoring to humor him; 'you shall lie in my bed, and I will watch by you till you are better.'
"The young man burst into tears. This action evidently relieved him, and made him more rational, for he took my arm and I assisted him to bed, and tried to soothe him; but he soon relapsed into an excited fever. Shortly after, he called me to him, and throwing his arms closely around me, exclaimed, 'Partridge, we were born in the same land; I implore you, by that one common tie, not to leave me an instant; I am a doomed wretch; but save me, save me from the fiend, as long as it is possible.'
"I now became very much alarmed. My first impulse was to administer an opiate; but the case seemed so critical that I determined to send at once for Louis, whose sympathy for the students, you know, is universal. I called to young Stabb, who occupied the next room, and he set off immediately. After a few minutes Dervilly dozed a little; and then he started up, and gazed around, as if attempting to discern some object.
"'Do you wish for any thing?' I said. He took no notice of my question, but continued to glance piercingly in every direction.
"'What do you see?' I asked.
"'La Morgue!' he exclaimed, with a shudder, and pointing into the other room—'La Morgue!'
"He continued to gaze madly in the same way, still holding his arm outstretched, while his whole frame seemed convulsed with terror; but I could gain no clue to the catastrophe which had fallen so terribly on the ill-fated sufferer.
"It seemed to me an age—it really was but an hour—before Stabb returned. He was accompanied by Louis. It was the great Louis whose skill as a physician, and especially in the treatment of fevers, is world renowned. I had 'followed' him during the whole of your absence; had become, as a matter of course, one of his warmest admirers; and was fortunate enough to secure his friendship. He also knew Dervilly. Hearing them enter, I stepped into the principal room, to meet him. 'Mon Dieu! Monsieur Partridge, quel est le mal?' said Louis, with great feeling. 'Monsieur Dervilly was at the hospital in the morning, and I met him as late as six o'clock this afternoon, passing into the Jardin des Plants.'
"'God only knows,' I replied. 'Something horrible has suddenly befallen him.' And I gave an account of what had occurred since Dervilly came to his rooms. Louis was silent for a moment, and then began to question me very minutely about him, while Stabb went in to keep watch over the poor fellow.—Among other things, I mentioned his love affair; and believing it to be my duty to do so, I told Louis, briefly, all Dervilly had confided to me. He listened with great attention, and after I had concluded, we passed into the little chamber where Dervilly lay. He started up with violence as we came in, as if a severe paroxysm were about to follow. He stared wildly on seeing Louis, and seizing his hand, he exclaimed, 'Ah, mon Professeur, you are a very great man, and you are very kind to come to me, but your knowledge avails nothing here,' touching his forehead. Suddenly he extended his finger, and cried again, 'La Morgue—La Morgue.'
"'What see you in La Morgue?' said Louis, tenderly.
"'See? Her, her!' screamed Dervilly.
"'Who, mon enfant? said the Professor, very gently.
"'Who, but the fiend—the fiend! She has my soul—lost, lost for ever.'
"'You should not speak so harshly of Mademoiselle de Coigny,' continued Louis, in a soothing tone.
"'Pronounce not that name: a bait, a trap, a wile of Satan; repeat it, and I will tear you piecemeal!' cried the maniac.
"'But, mon pauvre enfant, what does she at La Morgue?'
"'She? the fiend—the fiend—sits perched on the top of the wooden rail all night, watching—watching—and when some of the corpses show signs of life, sails down, and sits upon, and strangles them. Keep me away from there. Ah, mon Professeur, do not let me go there, to lie on the board, and have her bending over me, eyeing me, watching me, ready to strangle me. There again! keep those glazed eyes away—keep them away, I say—'
"All this time Louis was making a minute examination of Dervilly's symptoms.
"The latter presently seemed aware of what he was doing, for he exclaimed, 'The usual symptoms, eh, mon Professeur; strongly marked, n'est ce pas? Act promptly and decisively, as you say sometimes. Let blood—let blood—appliquez des sangsues—ha, ha, ha! that's what we call bleeding, both general and local, ha, ha, ha! then come on with your cold applications: ice, ice, a mountain of ice piled round about the head! follow up with cathartics, refrigerant diaphoretics, after depleting blister!—say you not so?—blisters to the nape of the neck—blisters behind the ears—shave the scalp—I forgot that—shave the scalp—strange I had not thought of it,—and the hair. Mon Professeur, I know you will think me very foolish, but—save the hair—I shan't have another growth—save the hair. Where was I?—ah, the blisters—that will pretty nearly do for me—keep every thing quiet, very quiet—after a while, digitalis and nitre—digitalis and nitre, mon Professeur—have I not said my lesson well?'
"Louis stood perfectly still, regarding the poor fellow with a mournful interest. As Dervilly paused, he took off his spectacles, and wiped his eyes. 'Ah, Monsieur Louis, you talk very eloquently about medical science, but I baffle you; I am sure of it. Call the class together—Ah, Notre Dame de Pitie—call the class together; voila la clinique. Thus being thus, it must necessarily be thus. That's a wise saying, mon Professeur. Call the class together; propound why of necessity you can do nothing? because of a necessity nothing can be done. Call the class together; be active—vigorously antiphlogistic; time is precious—the patient in danger. Purgatives—I doubt as to purgatives. What think you?' And Dervilly paused, and cast on Louis a look so naturally inquiring, that the latter replied, as it were, involuntarily, 'Moi aussi je doute.' And it was so; with all his genius, all his knowledge, all his experience, and all his skill, the great practitioner stood, while minute after minute was lost, apparently hesitating what to do. At last he called me into the other room. 'Is it not possible to find Mademoiselle de Coigny?' he inquired.
"'I have no means of knowing where to seek her,' I replied. At the same time I remembered she was in the habit of visiting the house in which Dervilly first met her, and fortunately knew the street and number.
"'Let her be sent for instantly,' said Louis. 'Do not go yourself; you may be of service here.' Accordingly I gave Stabb the direction, and instructed him to procure Mademoiselle de Coigny's address, if possible; but if he were unsuccessful in this, to communicate the fact of Dervilly's alarming illness, and beg that Mademoiselle might be immediately summoned.
"We returned to the sick room, and Louis, seating himself in a chair, remained lost in thought for nearly a quarter of an hour, while I did what I could, to pacify the sufferer. I could not help wondering that a man, so prompt and so efficient, should lose a moment when the least delay was to be avoided; and as I was reflecting on this, Louis rose so suddenly from his seat that I was startled. 'There is but one course, and the poor boy has very accurately defined it. Let his head be shaved, and pillowed in ice; bleed him at once—if he faints, all the better.' 'No danger of that,' shouted Dervilly. 'No syncope with me but the last syncope—no syncope—ha, ha, ha! double the ounces—you are timid—no syncope, I say—' He continued the whole time raving, much in the manner I have described. The room was kept quite dark, and no one was permitted to come in. Louis did not leave the bedside the entire night. Dervilly never slept for an instant. On one occasion he threw himself close on one side, and screamed, 'Take her away—take her away!'
"'What is it?' I asked.
"'Do you not see her?' he shrieked, 'sitting on the bed, looking into my eyes; take her away, take her away!'
"I need not detail to you," continued Partridge, "the whole of these fearful scenes. Late in the evening Stabb returned; he had found the house; and although he could not obtain Mademoiselle de Coigny's address, he was promised that his message should be communicated early in the morning.
"'It will be too late,' said Louis, mournfully.
"What a long night it was. The morning dawned at last, but it brought no change to poor Dervilly. I had sent for his nearest relative, who lived over on the Boulevard Poissonnière, and was awaiting his arrival with considerable anxiety. It was not later than nine. Stabb, the good fellow, had relieved me from my watch, and I was in the sitting-room, in my large arm-chair, still anxious and fearful, when there came a slight tap at the door; it opened—and Emilie de Coigny stood before me. Ah, how beautiful she was, yet how terrified! It was not terror of excitement—mere surface passion—but from the depths of her soul. She was stirred by intense emotion. 'Tell me,' she said, coming earnestly up to me, 'tell me where he is, and what has happened to him!' I put my finger on my lips to prevent her from saying more, and led her to the further corner of the room; but she would not sit down; she begged to be told every thing at once; and I, in a low voice, gave Mademoiselle do Coigny a minute account of all I had witnessed. When I came to Dervilly's exclamation, 'La Morgue—La Morgue,' the young girl became suddenly very pale, her fortitude forsook her, and she murmured faintly, 'He saw me go in—he saw me go in.' I must admit I was, for the moment, not a little tremulous. I recollected stories of devils taking possession of the dead bodies of virgins, in order to lure young men to perdition. I thought of the tale of the German student, who, on retiring with his bride, beheld her head roll from her body (she had been guillotined that morning), leaving him wedded to the foul fiend. In spite of me, I looked on the pale stricken creature before me as in one way or another connected with the adversary, and holding a commission from the Prince of the Power of the Air. I had little time for thought on the subject, for Mademoiselle de Coigny insisted on seeing Dervilly. I hesitated, but she was decided. She threw aside her pretty straw hat, and a light shawl, and stepped toward the apartment where her lover lay. She passed the threshold before he saw her. She called him by his name, 'Alfred.' He turned, and as his eyes fell on her, he uttered mad exclamations; crouching frantically in the furthest corner of the bed. 'Avaunt,' he screamed; 'vampyre—devil—owl of hell—come no nearer, (she still advanced, calling to him tenderly); I know that syren voice; it has damned and double damned me.—Partridge! Stabb! take her away, or,' he continued, in a fierce tone, 'I will do second execution on her.'
"Poor girl—it was too much—she swooned away....
"You may imagine that it was a terrible scene," continued Partridge. "I set to work immediately for her recovery, having first carried her out of the room where Dervilly lay. She opened her eyes at last, but what a look of anguish was in them! 'Is he better?' she asked in a faint tone. I shook my head. 'Tell me,' she exclaimed, 'will he die? oh, will he, must he die?'
"'He is very sick, Mademoiselle.'
"'I have killed him, I have killed him,' she cried.
"'Pardon me', said I, 'Monsieur Dervilly is in great danger; still if we knew the cause of this dreadful attack we might gain some advantage by it.'
"'Ah, it is my work,' murmured the fair mystery to herself, without heeding my observation; 'I have done it, and if he dies, I am a murderer—his murderer.' She appeared no way disposed to betray her secret, and I did not press the subject. Presently Louis came in. He made his inquiries of me, and then went to the patient. There was no change, except in the increase of fatal symptoms. The delirium was more furious, the pulse hard, full, frequent, and vibrating. The most vigorous course was adopted; two other students were called in to assist Stabb and myself, and every means used to give effect to the prescribed treatment.
"As for Mademoiselle de Coigny, she remained in the sitting-room, the picture of intense anguish. I urged her to retire, but she shook her head. I now begged her to tell me what had caused this strange attack, but she was silent. At length I went and called Madame Lecomte—you recollect what a kind-hearted creature she was—and told her briefly the little I knew of the unfortunate girl. She answered the summons at once, and in the most gentle manner endeavored to persuade Mademoiselle de Coigny to go with her. It was in vain. She would not leave the room. Occasionally, through the day, she would step to Dervilly's bedside, and in the softest, sweetest, gentlest tone I ever heard, say, 'Alfred.' The effect was always the same as at first—exciting the poor fellow to still deeper paroxysms, and more violent exclamations. On the fourth day he died; the symptoms becoming more and more aggravating, until coma supervened to delirium. During the whole period of his sickness Mademoiselle de Coigny never left the house—scarcely the room—Madame Lecomte on two or three occasions almost forcing the wretched girl away to her own apartments. When poor Dervilly sunk into that deep lethargic slumber, so much dreaded by the physician, because so fatal, she came almost joyfully into his chamber, and threw her arms tenderly around him, 'He sleeps at last,' she said, 'is it not well?'
"I would have given the world for the freedom of bursting into tears, so deeply was I affected by that hopeful, trustful question. What could I do, but shake my head mournfully and hasten out of the place.... He died, and made no sign; not a word, not a look, not the slightest pressure of the hand, for the one he loved so tenderly, and who watched so anxiously for some slight token. 'Oh,' I exclaimed to myself, as the hardness of such a fate was impressed on me, 'God is just, there is a hereafter, these two must meet again.' ... Emilie de Coigny left the room where her dead lover lay, only when he himself was borne to his last resting-place. She followed him to the spot where he was buried in Pere la Chaise, and remained standing by it after every one else had come away. In this position she was found—standing over the grave—late at night by her friends—some members of the family I have mentioned—who sought her out. She left that splendid city of the dead bereft of reason, and so she has ever since continued. When the day is fine, she invariably keeps her fancied engagement with her lover at the appointed place in the Jardin des Plants; she patiently sits the hour, and retires sadly, as you saw her. When the weather is forbidding, she goes to her friend's house and waits the same period, never showing the least symptom of impatience, but, on the contrary, evincing the signs of a bruised but most gentle spirit." ...
Here Partridge paused, as if at the end of his story.
"Is that all?" said I.
"That is all," he responded.
"Surely not," I continued; "you have said nothing about the strange mystery which killed our poor friend, and which, as it seems to me, is the main point, in the story."
"True enough—it is singular I should have left it out, but it is explained in a word. These same friends of Mademoiselle de Coigny gave me the information. It appears that on one inclement night, as the keeper of the Morgue was returning from an official visit to the Chief of Police, toward his own quarters, which are adjoining and over the dead room—he stumbled over something which a flash of lightning at the instant showed to be the body of a man. He was quite dead, but, nestled down close by his side, with one of her little hands on his face, was a child, about two years of age. Jean Maurice Sorel, although long inured to repulsive sights, had not grown callous to misery. By birth he was considerably above his somewhat ignominious office; he had narrowly escaped with his life when Louis XVI. was brought to the scaffold, for some indiscreet expressions that savored too much of royalty; but in the tumults which succeeded, he had, he scarcely knew how, through some influence with the chief of one of the departments, been appointed to this repulsive duty. But as I have said, his heart was just as kind as ever, after many years discharge of it; and Jean Maurice Sorel, instead of repining at his lot, blessed God daily that he had the means of supporting a wife and children, while so many of his old friends had literally starved to death. Such was the person who stumbled over the body of the dead man, and discovered the living child beside it. He called at once for assistance, and had the corpse conveyed to his house, while he carried the little girl in his arms. She was too young to give any information about herself, but on searching the pockets of the deceased, several papers were found which disclosed enough to satisfy Jean Maurice Sorel that in the wasted, attenuated form before him, he beheld his once friend and benefactor the Marquis de Coigny, who, he supposed, had perished by the guillotine in the revolution. The papers permitted no doubt of the fact that the little girl was his granddaughter and only descendant, and she was commended to the care of the kind-hearted when death should overtake him.
"The old Marquis was buried, and the little Emilie adopted into the family of the good Jean Maurice. Her education was conducted in a manner far superior to that of his own children, and the choicest garments of those which fell to him were selected to be made over for her. Perhaps unwisely, her history was explained to her, so that she lived all her life with the sense that she belonged in a different sphere—not that she was ungrateful or unamiable—quite the contrary—she was sweet tempered, affectionate and gentle, and loved by Jean Maurice and all his family with a devoted fondness: but the world had charms for her which the world withheld; she felt that she never could become an object of love where she could love in return, and so she repined at her destiny. By accident she made the acquaintance of the family where Dervilly first met her. They had known her father and her grandfather, and she loved them for that. She resisted for a long time the feeling for her lover which she perceived was taking strong hold of her, and when she could resist no longer, she yet delayed to tell him what a home she inhabited. This was her pride—her weakness—and how terribly did she pay the penalty! Day after day (so I was told), she resolved to explain all, but she procrastinated, till her lover, no longer able to restrain his anxiety, and full of excitements and fears and perturbations, followed her at some little distance, just at twilight, and saw or fancied he saw her enter La Morgue. It was too much for his nervous temperament. His brain caught fire—he came home raving with delirium—and DIED! Now you have the whole."