Though terribly hacked and sorely treated, none of my wounds were dangerous; and after being bandaged, and stitched, and plastered in various ways, I was able—or at least insisted that I was able—to pursue my journey that evening; and away we drove, with no very grateful recollection of Valence, except, indeed, towards the old captain, who saw us off, and took a most affectionate leave of us at parting.
Margot had heard from the hostess enough to show her that I had been her champion and defender, though in what cause she could not possibly divine. Whatever her anxiety to learn the facts, she never put a single question to me as we went along, her sole care being to do whatever might assuage my pain and alleviate my suffering. Thanks to this kindness, and the cool air of an autumn night, I travelled with comparatively little uneasiness; and as day was breaking we entered the quiet street of the little village.
“There, yonder is our house,—the porch with the jasmine over it. Oh, how the rose-trees have grown!”
Such was Margot's exclamation, as we drew up at the door.
CHAPTER XXX. LINANGE
I do not know how far other men's experiences will corroborate the opinion, but for myself I will say that more than once has it occurred to me to remark that some of the most monotonous periods of my life have been those to which I often look back with the greatest pleasure, and love to think over as amongst the happiest. The time I passed at Linange was one of these. Nothing could be more simple, nothing more uniform than our life there. The unhappy circumstance to which I have already alluded had completely estranged from the family any of those with whom they might have associated. From some, the former rank and condition of the house separated them; from others they were removed by political bias; and to the rest, the event of which I have already spoken was the barrier. Thus, then, was our life passed within the limits of an humble household of four persons. The old Marquis—for such was he still styled by us—was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged: proud and stately in manner, but courteous almost to humility in his bearing to one beneath his roof. Unbroken by misfortune, he trusted that—although not in his time—the world would yet return to its ancient course, and the good king “have his own again.” His personal calamities sat lightly on him, or, rather, he bore them bravely. If he spoke of his former state and position, it was in regret for those faithful followers he could no longer support,—not for himself, whose wants were few, and whose habits demanded no luxuries. In the calling that he practised for his maintenance, he saw rather an occasion for pride than humiliation. There was but one topic from which he shrunk back; nor could all his courage enable him to approach that. When I first saw him, it was after a severe attack brought on by the dreadful tidings from Paris; and yet his composure seemed to me almost bordering on indifference, and I half revolted against the calm elegance of a good-breeding that seemed above the reach of all feeling. Ursule was a “nun;” and whether the walls around her were those of a cloister or a cottage, her heart was enclosed within the observances of the convent. She rose hours before daybreak, to pass her time in prayer and solitude. She fasted, and toiled, and observed penances, exactly as if beneath the rule of the Superior. She had been singularly handsome, and there was still a character of beauty in her features, to which her devotional life imparted an expression of sublimity such as I have never seen even in a “Raphael.” Suffering and sorrow seemed so blended with hopefulness—present agony so tinctured with a glorious future—that, to me at least, she appeared almost angelic.
As for “Margot,” child as she was, the whole care of the household devolved upon her. The humblest ménage is not without its duties, and to these she addressed herself at once. It was on the day after my arrival, and while just meditating a return to Paris, that symptoms of fever first showed themselves, and a severe shivering, followed by intense headache, showed me that I was not to escape the consequences of my unhappy encounter. Ursule, whose experience in hospital life had been considerable, was the first to see the mischief that threatened, and at once persuaded me to submit to treatment. The old Marquis was soon at my bedside, but as quickly did he perceive that the case was beyond his skill. The surgeon of the village was now sent for; he bled me largely, dressed my wounds, administered some cooling drink, and then left me to that terrible interval which precedes mania, and when the enfeebled intellect struggles for mastery against the force of wandering faculties.
In my wild fancies, all the incidents of my early days, the little adventures of boyhood, my mountain ramble, and my life in Paris, came back, and I talked with intense eagerness to those around me of them all. Short intervals of consciousness, like gleams of sunlight in a lowering sky, would break through these, and then I saw beside the bed the kind faces, and heard the gentle accents, of my friends. “Ursule” and, “Margot” scarcely ever left me. In the dark hours of the long night, if a weary sigh escaped me, one of them was sure to be near to ask if I was in pain or if I needed anything. How often have I turned away from these gentle questionings to hide my face within my hands and cry, not in sorrow, but in a thankful outpouring of emotion, that I, the poor unfriended, uncared-for orphan, should be thus watched, and tended, and loved!
It was not till after a lapse of weeks that I was pronounced out of danger, nor even till long after that that I could arise from my bed. Shall I ever forget the strange confusion of ideas that beset me as I first found myself alone one morning in the little garden, scarcely knowing if I was still dreaming, or if all was reality around me! Where was I? how came I there? were questions that I could not follow to a solution. Some resemblance in the scenery with the country around Reichenau assisted the mystification, and from the entanglement of my thoughts no effort could rescue me. As, one by one, memories of the past came up, there came with them the sad reflection of my own lonely, isolated condition in life. The humblest had a home—had those around them to whose love and affection they could lay claim as from blood and kindred—who bore the same name, were supported by the same hopes, cheered by the same joys, and sorrowed for the same sufferings! It was true that no affection a sister could bestow could exceed that I had met with where I was. There was not a kindness of which I had not been the object. Was I, could I, be ungrateful for these? Far from it!—my melancholy lay in the thought that these were the very evidences of my own forlorn lot, and that compassion and pity were the sentiments that prompted them in my behalf.