“Aurore, mass’r.”
“Aurore!”
Chapter Sixteen.
Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.
I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was “Aurore.” Why? Was it the singularity and beauty of the name,—for novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name “Aurore?”
I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther. At that moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.
“Da doctor, mass’r,” whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the gentlemen to approach.
Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the “doctor.” The professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man, who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius, as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his door-plate in the other.