Ah, Mr. Syndic, it is a moment of temptation.
"Perhaps his business is matter of life and death, and an hour even may be of vast consequence to me, to the city, to the Protestant cause. Indeed, it must be so, or they never would have sent him over in such stormy weather." So said fancy,—a quality much more nearly allied to curiosity than people think; and Clement Tournon rose from his seat. But the fine moral sense that was in him interfered. "No, never!" he said; "no, never! I will not touch them so long as he lives. They shall not be fingered by any one in my house."
Still, he felt strongly tempted; and after a while he rose again and went to call Marton, feeling it would be better for him not to remain in that room alone. His large-capped pippin-faced maid-servant was then duly imbued with all the doctor's directions, warned to change the cataplasms every two hours and to keep the wet cloths on the head cool; and then Clement Tournon walked forth from his house toward the fine old town-hall.
Marton sat and sewed. The invalid did not stir, and an hour passed by. "It must be time to change the cataplasms," she thought: "he will not wake till I come back: would Heaven he could, poor lad!" and down she went to the kitchen where what she needed had been left to keep warm.
In the mean time, we may as well look about the room. It was a very pretty little chamber, well and even luxuriously furnished withal. Two windows looked out to the back court, and the sunshine came in over a lower house behind. The rays first fell upon a small writing-desk of dark carved oak, then touched upon a small bookcase in the same style, well provided with books, and then upon a large armory, as it was then called, or wardrobe, as we should now term it. There was moreover a corner cupboard, also richly carved, with a glass door on two sides, showing a number of little knick-knacks selected with great taste, some ivory figures exquisitely cut, and a child's sampler of not the best needlework.
Suddenly the door opened, and, with a quick step, but so light that one could not hear a footfall, there entered a creature that seemed like a dream, or a fairy, or a wreath of morning mist with fancy to shape it into the form of a young girl. She could not be more than fifteen years of age; but yet there were traces of early womanhood in neck and shoulders and rounded limbs. But we may have to describe her hereafter, and here we only stop to speak of the look of strange surprise which opened the long, blue, deeply-fringed eyes more wide, and expanded the nostril of the delicate nose, and raised the arched eyebrow, and showed the pearl-like teeth between the rosy lips, as she beheld the pale and bloody figure of the poor lad lying upon her own bed. She stood for a moment in silent astonishment, and then was approaching slowly on tiptoe—as if her foot could have made any noise—toward the bedside, when a soft voice behind her said, "Lucette."
She started and turned round, and the old syndic, who stood in the doorway, beckoned her into the passage beyond.
"My dear child," he said, "I have been obliged to give your room to a poor young lad who has been sadly hurt, because it was the only one where he could have perfect quiet. I will put you in the blue room on the other side, where you may have some noise; but I know your good heart will not let you feel annoyed at giving up your chamber for a day or two to him and our good Marton, who has to nurse him."
"I will nurse him myself," said the young girl, "or at least help Marton. Annoyed, grandfather? Could you think I would be annoyed in such a case as his? Poor fellow! I will go and speak to him." And, before the old man could tell her that it was in vain, she ran up to the bedside, and said, in a low, sweet voice, "Be of good cheer, young gentleman: we will nurse and tend you till you are quite well."