Nicot eyed his patient critically. "It is splendid flesh, but he has been on a long debauch. I'll fetch my case and bleed him a bit."
"Poor lad!" said Victor. "God knows, he has been through enough already. What if he should die?"
"Would he not prefer it so?" the vicomte asked. "Were I in his place I should consider death a blessing in disguise. But do not worry; he will pull out of it, if only for a day, in order to run his sword through that fool of a D'Hérouville. The Chevalier always keeps his engagements. I will leave you now. I will call in the morning."
For two weeks the Chevalier's mind was without active thought or sense of time. It was as if two weeks had been plucked from his allotment without his knowledge or consent. Many a night Victor and Breton were compelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. He horrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling the main at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughter broke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in all his ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout. Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacques entered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the young priest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly to find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One night Victor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close and stifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck for a breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he saw Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor wondered about this priest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.
Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable face below.
"The Chevalier improves?" he asked.
"His mind has just cleared itself of the fever's fog, thank God!" cried Victor, heartily.
"He will live, then," replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued his pacing. After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priest mused aloud: "Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived." All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the first pallor of dawn.
On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough to be carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head propped with pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of the ship from disturbing him. O the warmth and glory of that spring sunshine! It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, a sense of gladness, peace, calm. As the beams draw water from the rivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from his veins and cast it to the cleansing winds. He was aware of no desire save that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join, and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring the bright horizon when the port sank. From time to time he held up his white hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one, though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day he feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.
"What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.