"I beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the Schoolmaster, controlling himself with much difficulty, for the pain he was still enduring was most excruciating. "I am better now. I'll tell you, with your kind leaves, all about it. You see I am by trade a working locksmith, and, one day that I was employed in beating out a huge bar of red hot iron, it fell over on my two legs, and burnt them so dreadfully that it has never healed; unfortunately, just now, I happened to strike the leg that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much disturbed all this good company, and for which I humbly beg pardon."
"Poor dear father!" whined out Tortillard, casting a look of fiendish malice at the shivering Schoolmaster, and wholly recovered from his late attack of excessive emotion. "Poor father! you have indeed got a bad leg nobody can cure. Ah, kind gentlemen, I hope you will never have such a shocking wound, and be obliged to hear all the doctors say it never will get well. No! never—never. Oh, my dear, dear father! how I wish I could but suffer the pain instead of you!"
At this tender, moving speech, the females present expressed the utmost admiration for the dutiful speaker, and began feeling in their vast pockets for some more substantial mark of their regard.
"It is unlucky, my honest friend," said old Châtelain, addressing the Schoolmaster, "you had not happened to come to this farm about three weeks ago, instead of to-night."
"And why so, if you please?"
"Because we had staying for a few days in the house a celebrated Paris doctor, who has an infallible remedy for all diseases of the legs. A worthy old woman, belonging to our village, had been confined to her bed upwards of three years with some affection of the legs. Well, this doctor, being here, as I said, heard of the case, applied an unguent to the wounds, and now, bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift, too, as any of our young girls; and the first holiday she makes she intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in the Allée des Veuves, at Paris, to return her grateful thanks. To be sure it is a good step from hence, but then, as Mother Anica says—Why, what has come over you again, my friend? Is your leg still so painful?"
The mention of the Allée des Veuves had recalled such frightful recollections to the Schoolmaster, that, involuntarily, a cold shudder shook his frame, while a fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly countenance, made it appear still more hideous.
"Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, "a sudden darting pain seized me, and—Pray excuse my interrupting your kind and sensible discourse, and be pleased to proceed."
"It really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer, "that this excellent doctor should not be with us at present; but I tell you what, he is as good as he is skilful, and I am quite sure if you let your little lad conduct you to his house when you return to Paris, that he will cure you. His address is not difficult to recollect, it is 17 Allée des Veuves. Even should you forget the number, it will not matter, for there are but very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other negro surgeon,—for, only imagine, this clever, kind, and charitable man is a black, but his heart is white and good. His name is David,—Doctor David,—you will be able to remember that name, I dare say."
The features of the Schoolmaster were so seamed and scarred that it was difficult to perceive when his colour varied. He did, however, on the present occasion, turn ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number mentioned of Rodolph's house, and afterwards the description of the black doctor,—of David, the negro surgeon, who, by Rodolph's orders, had inflicted on him the fearful punishment, the terrible results of which were each hour more painfully developed. Father Châtelain, however, was too much interested in his subject to notice the deadly paleness of the Schoolmaster, and proceeded with his discourse: