The next morning, as he stood in his office, hat in hand, and a finger pointing to a prescription on his desk, which he was directing Narcisse to give to some one who would call for it, there came a sudden hurried pounding of feminine feet on the stairs, a whiff of robes in the corridor, and Mary Richling rushed into his presence all tears and cries.
“O Doctor!—O Doctor! O God, my husband! my husband! O Doctor, my husband is in the Parish Prison!” She sank to the floor.
The Doctor raised her up. Narcisse hurried forward with his hands full of restoratives.
“Take away those things,” said the Doctor, resentfully. “Here!—Mrs. Richling, take Narcisse’s arm and go down and get into my carriage. I must write a short note, excusing myself from an appointment, and then I will join you.”
Mary stood alone, turned, and passed out of the office beside the young Creole, but without taking his proffered arm. Did she suspect him of having something to do with this dreadful affair?
“Missez Witchlin,” said he, as soon as they were out in the corridor, “I dunno if you goin’ to billiv me, but I boun’ to tell you that nodwithstanning that yo’ ’uzban’ is displease’ with me, an’ nodwithstanning ’e’s in that calaboose, I h’always fine ’im a puffic gen’leman—that Mistoo Itchlin,—an’ I’ll sweah ’e is a gen’leman!”
She lifted her anguished eyes and looked into his beautiful face. Could she trust him? His little forehead was as hard as a goat’s, but his eyes were brimming with tears, and his chin quivered. As they reached the head of the stairs he again offered his arm, and she took it, moaning softly, as they descended:—
“O John! O John! O my husband, my husband!”