Meanwhile, she had resumed speaking: “I was much reduced in circumstances—at the end of my resources, indeed—when M. de Chalusse—a family friend—requested me to act as companion to a young girl in whom he was interested—Mademoiselle Marguerite. I accepted the position; and I thank God every day that I did so, for I feel a mother’s affection for this young girl, and she loves me as fondly as if she were my own daughter.” In support of her assertion, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and succeeded in forcing a few tears to her eyes. “Under these circumstances, doctor,” she continued, “you cannot fail to understand that the interests of my dearly beloved Marguerite bring me to you. I was shut up in my own room when M. de Chalusse was brought home, and I did not hear of his illness until after your departure. Perhaps you might say that I ought to have waited until your next visit; but I had not sufficient patience to do so. One cannot submit without a struggle to the torture of suspense, when the future of a beloved daughter is at stake. So here I am.” She paused to take breath, and then added, “I have come, monsieur, to ask you to tell me the exact truth respecting the count’s condition.”
The doctor was expecting something very different, but nevertheless he replied with all due gravity and self-possession. “It is my painful duty to tell you, madame, that there is scarcely any hope, and that I expect a fatal termination within twenty-four hours, unless the patient should regain consciousness.”
The housekeeper turned pale. “Then all is lost,” she faltered, “all is lost!” And unable to articulate another word she rose to her feet, bowed, and abruptly left the room.
Before the grate, with his mouth half open, and his right arm extended in an interrupted gesture, the doctor stood speechless and disconcerted. It was only when the outer door closed with a bang that he seemed restored to consciousness. And as he heard the noise he sprang forward as if to recall his visitor. “Ah!” he exclaimed, with an oath, “the miserable old woman was mocking me!” And urged on by a wild, irrational impulse, he caught up his hat and darted out in pursuit. Madame Leon was considerably in advance of him, and was walking very quickly; still, by quickening his pace, he might have overtaken her. However, he did not join her, for he scarcely knew what excuse to offer for such a strange proceeding; he contented himself by cautiously following her at a little distance. Suddenly she stopped short. It was in front of a tobacconist’s shop, where there was a post-office letter-box. The shop was closed, but the box was there with its little slit for letters to be dropped into it. Madame Leon evidently hesitated. She paused, as one always does before venturing upon a decisive act, from which there will be no return, whatever may be the consequences. An observer never remains twenty minutes before a letter-box without witnessing this pantomime so expressive of irresolution. At last, however, she shrugged her shoulders with a gesture which eloquently expressed the result of her deliberations; and drawing a letter from her bosom, she dropped it into the box, and then hastened on more quickly than before.
“There is not the slightest doubt,” thought the doctor, “that letter had been prepared in advance, and whether it should be sent or not depended on the answer I gave.”
We have already said that M. Jodon was not a wealthy man, and yet he would willingly have given a hundred-franc note to have known the contents of this letter, or even the name of the person to whom it was addressed. But his chase was almost ended. Madame Leon had reached the Hotel de Chalusse, and now went in. Should he follow her? His curiosity was torturing him to such a degree that he had an idea of doing so; and it required an heroic effort of will to resist the temptation successfully. But a gleam of common sense warned him that this would be a terrible blunder. Once already during the evening his conduct had attracted attention; and he began to realize that there was a better way of winning confidence than by intruding almost forcibly into other people’s affairs. Accordingly he thoughtfully retraced his steps, feeling intensely disgusted with himself. “What a fool I am!” he grumbled. “If I had kept the old woman in suspense, instead of blurting out the truth, I might have learned the real object of her visit; for she had an object. But what was it?”
The doctor spent the two hours that remained to him before making his second visit in trying to discover it. But, although nothing prevented him from exploring the boundless fields of improbable possibilities, he could think of nothing satisfactory. There was only one certain point, that Madame Leon and Mademoiselle Marguerite were equally interested in the question as to whether the count would regain consciousness or not. As to their interests in the matter, the doctor felt confident that they were not identical; he was persuaded that a secret enmity existed between them, and that the housekeeper had visited him without Mademoiselle Marguerite’s knowledge. For he was not deceived by Madame Leon, or by her pretended devotion to Mademoiselle Marguerite. Her manner, her smooth words, her tone of pious resignation, and the allusion to the grand name she had the right to bear, were all calculated to impose upon one; but she had been too much disconcerted toward the last to remember her part. Dr. Jodon lacked the courage to return to his sumptuous rooms, and it was in a little cafe that he thus reflected upon the situation, while drinking some execrable beer brewed in Paris out of a glass manufactured in Bavaria.
At last midnight sounded—the hour had come. Still the doctor did not move. Having been obliged to wait himself, he wished, in revenge, to make the others wait, and it was not until the cafe closed that he again walked up the Rue de Courcelles. Madame Leon had left the gate ajar, and the doctor had no difficulty in making his way into the courtyard. As in the earlier part of the evening, the servants were assembled in the concierge’s lodge; but the careless gayety which shone upon their faces a few hours before had given place to evident anxiety respecting their future prospects. Through the windows of the lodge they could be seen standing round the two choice spirits of the household, M. Bourigeau, the concierge, and M. Casimir, the valet, who were engaged in earnest conversation. And if the doctor had listened, he would have heard such words as “wages,” and “legacies,” and “remuneration for faithful service,” and “annuities” repeated over and over again.
But M. Jodon did not listen. Thinking he should find some servant inside, he entered the house. However, there was nobody to announce his presence; the door closed noiselessly behind him, the heavy carpet which covered the marble steps stifled the sound of his footsteps, and he ascended the first flight without seeing any one. The door opening into the count’s room was open, the room itself being brilliantly lighted by a large fire, and a lamp which stood on a corner of the mantel-shelf. Instinctively the doctor paused and looked in. There had been no change since his first visit. The count was still lying motionless on his pillows; his face was swollen, his eyelids were closed, but he still breathed, as was shown by the regular movement of the covering over his chest. Madame Leon and Mademoiselle Marguerite were his only attendants. The housekeeper, who sat back a little in the shade, was half reclining in an arm-chair with her hands clasped in her lap, her lips firmly compressed, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy. Pale but calm, and more imposing and more beautiful than ever, Mademoiselle Marguerite was kneeling beside the bed, eagerly watching for some sign of renewed life and intelligence on the count’s face.
A little ashamed of his indiscretion, the doctor retreated seven or eight steps down the stairs, and then ascended them again, coughing slightly, so as to announce his approach. This time he was heard. for Mademoiselle Marguerite came to the door to meet him. “Well?” he inquired.