"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 'sœurs 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."