“There is a physician lives close by,” I said, “I can run for him in a minute.”
“No, no,” cried the good priest, “that will not do. There was a physician here in Paris, whom I knew in days of old—a good and a sincere man, who would not betray us, but on the contrary, would give us aid and advice in other matters, besides those of mere health. Do you know the Place Du Petit Chatelet, Louis?”
I replied, that I knew it well, and Father Bonneville wrote down the name of a physician, and the number of his house, saying in the desponding tone of sickness—
“Very likely he may be dead, and then I know not what we shall do.”
Without any loss of time, I sallied out into the streets of Paris, in search of Dr. L——. It was a fine, clear, cold afternoon, with the snow lying piled up at the sides of the streets, the fountains all frozen, and the chains of the street-lamps covered with glittering frost. The wind was keen and cutting, and few people, especially of the lower orders, were in the street; for though sans culottism may be a very good thing, it is by no means warm, and the worthy rulers of the destinies of France at that moment, had not great-coats enough amongst them to render them indifferent to a north-east wind. I could thus pursue my way rapidly, uninterrupted by the crowds which usually thronged the streets of the French capital, and though doubtless I did not take all the shortest ways, I soon reached the place I was seeking. The houses were tall, dirty, well-smoked, and ever open doors round the whole place, gave entrance to innumerable stair-cases which led up to the dwellings of low advocates, notaries public, physicians, artists, poor men of letters, and all that class who scrape a precarious existence from the faults, the follies, the misfortunes, the miseries of others. But now I had a very puzzling calculation to make. Father Bonneville had written down, after the name of Dr. L——, number five, Place du Petit Chatelet, but not a house was to be seen which had a number on it, and I was obliged to guess at which corner the numeration commenced. I was evidently wrong in my first essay, for no Doctor L—— could I find in the house which I fixed upon; and short and snappish were the answers I got at the various doors where I applied.
That could not be number five, and so I turned to the other side of the square, and began in the opposite direction. As I was counting the houses from the corner, I saw a little girl coming from a street nearly in face of me, with a basket in her hand, and poorly dressed. She turned suddenly into one of the door-ways, and I sprang after her, running as fast as possible and nearly overturning an old woman, who was roasting chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which I had my benediction. Little cared I, however; for my heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared at that moment, was, that I should lose sight of that little girl with the basket; for I had taken it into my head at once that she was Mariette de Salins. She had gone up the stairs, however, when I reached the door, and without pausing for an instant I ran up after her, just in time to see her enter an apartment on the second floor, the door of which was closing as I approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’s consideration, when an elderly man, with thin and powdered white hair, and a pleasant, though grave expression of countenance, presented himself, asking who I wanted.
A moment’s consideration had shown me that it might be dangerous to mention the name of Mariette; nor must it be supposed that such discretion was at all marvelous in a boy of my age at that time; for those were days of constant peril, when every act was to be thought of, every word weighed, and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcated as a duty upon even mere children. On the spur of the occasion, then, I replied that I was seeking Dr. L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a door which stood ajar heading into a room beyond.
“My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man. “What is it you want with me, my son? And why are you looking so earnestly in there?”
“I want you to come and see a gentleman who is sick,” I replied, “in the Hotel de Clermont, close by the Quinze-vingts.”
“Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What is his name?”