One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

The Count mused for a moment; but after a while he besought the physician, in earnest terms, to obtain for him once more an interview, however short, with the lady in whose dwelling he lay. The good man, however, who had marked all that passed before, would not hear of it; and it was only on the following day, when he found that Aubin's impatience of contradiction was likely to injure him more than any other agitation he could undergo--he consented to bear his request to the ear of Beatrice. With her he found more difficulty than he had expected. She hesitated to bestow that care and attention upon the wounded man, now that he was recovering, which she had lavished on him without reserve when he had appeared dying. Her answer to his entreaty was cold and backward; and it was not till the physician brought her word that her reply had so much grieved the Count that his health suffered, that she consented once more to visit his chamber.

With a pale cheek, and with a timid step, Beatrice again approached the couch where D'Aubin, still as feeble as a child, anxiously awaited her coming. Her dark bright eyes stole a momentary glance at his worn countenance, and then fell again to the ground: for the feelings that were within her bosom--the knowledge that her love could no more be concealed, yet the wish to hide it--the compassion for D'Aubin's present state, which prevented her from covering her real sensations with the garb of coldness and disdain--and the doubt and the fear that even yet the chastening rod of suffering might not have had its due effect on him she loved,--all rendered it impossible for her to play the bold and careless part she had hitherto acted, yet left it difficult to choose another.

Seating herself by his bedside, while the physician stood gazing from the window, she strove to speak; but, for the first time in her life, her ready wit failed her; and ere she could call it back, D'Aubin himself broke the silence, and relieved her. "Beatrice!" he said in a low tone, "how much have I to thank you for! how much deep gratitude do I owe you!"

"Not so, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, without looking at him: "I have done but a common act of charity, in tending one so badly hurt as you were."

"Beatrice, dear Beatrice!" he replied, "use not cold words towards me; for believe me, that of all the medicaments which the leeches have applied to bring me back to life and strength, the sight of Beatrice, when I woke from that cold and deathlike trance, was the best cordial to my heart."

She looked up, and there was something like tears in her bright eyes; but all she could answer was, "Indeed, D'Aubin? Indeed?"

"Indeed, Beatrice! and in truth!" replied D'Aubin; "and ever since that hour the sight has been present to my eyes. I have remembered it--I have fed upon it; and believe me, that it has not only tended to heal the wounds of this weak frame, but has done much to cure the diseases of my still weaker heart and mind. Beatrice, my beloved, I have done you wrong. Wild, vain, and heedless, I have acted ill, and have cast away my own happiness through idleness and folly. That time is past: forgive me, Beatrice; and believe me, D'Aubin is changed."

"I hope it may be so, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied the fair Italian, more composedly--"I hope it maybe so; for though the past has given pain to many of your noblest friends, still Beatrice of Ferrara never yet gave up the hope that all might be amended. But now I leave you for to-day, because such conversation is not fitted to your present feeble state."

"Nay, nay, stay yet awhile, Beatrice," he cried, holding her hand, which he had taken, and gazing on her lovely features as if he would have impressed every line on his memory so deeply that remembrance might become a picture rather than that vague shadowy phantasmagoria which at best it is. Beatrice, however, disengaged her hand, and saying, "I will come again to-morrow; I must not be profuse of my presence, D'Aubin, lest you cease to value it;" she glided away and left him.

Eagerly did Philip d'Aubin watch for her coming; and day after day, so long as he continued unable to rise, did Beatrice accompany the physician back to his chamber, after the man of healing had made his morning's report touching his patient's health. Still fearful of yielding to all she felt, and with an intuitive knowledge of that subtle thing--the heart of man--Beatrice would fain have put a strong restraint upon her words and actions, and struggled against each of those little signs of deep and passionate love into which every day's conversation was prone to betray her. But who is there with a heart so obedient, and with a demeanour so completely under the rule and government of the mind, as to avoid every tender word, or smile of affection, or look of love, under a daily intercourse with one so dear as he was unto her? Besides, too, he was recovering from wounds, and had but by a miracle escaped death; and there is something sadly traitorous to all strong resolutions in watching the coming back of health--the reviving colour, the brightening eye, the expanding look; and in hearing the round tone of life's full breath take place of the low trembling voice of sickness. At first, as Beatrice entered his chamber, she would smile with a look of arch gaiety, to see the anxiety with which he turned to ascertain if it were her step he heard; but as day passed by on day, that smile lost all but the signs of gladness, and Beatrice might be seen watching for the hour of the visit, as well as her wounded lover. One day only was that visit not made; and that was the first on which D'Aubin rose from a couch whereon he had passed nearly six weeks in danger and anguish. It was not coquetry that made her refrain; it was not the least abatement of her love; but a feeling which she strove not to explain, even to herself, and which it would be impossible to explain to others. Be it what it may that moved her, she passed that day in prayer.