Ferdinand turned round suddenly upon the ill-bred youth, and in his haggard glance there was a flash of positive ferocity: it was but a flash, but to an observer it would have sufficed to testify the truth of the horrid words uttered in jest. An instant after, the impression was chased away, and a laugh was the only visible result of the incident; but any one who could have decyphered what was engraven on M. de Candolles’ countenance that night, would have seen that a convulsion so violent had passed over his whole being; that reason was almost shaken from its throne.
The constant recurrence of these violent emotions acted more and more visibly each day upon Ferdinand’s wasted frame; and, at last, a moment came when he disappeared altogether from his habitual haunts. Few marked his absence, except a few women, in whose albums he wrote bad verses, and for whom he procured autographs from great theatrical celebrities. Upward of ten days passed, and M. de Candolles had not yet been heard of. His old friend, Madame de Guesvillers, drove herself to his door, and the answer at first was—as usual—that he was “out.” Two days later, however, the porter admitted that he was in reality very ill, but that the doctor had forbidden any one from visiting him, as the slightest agitation or exertion might produce the worst effects. That very evening, whilst her circle of habitués was around her, Madame de Guesvillers received a note from Ferdinand, expressing his gratitude for her inquiries, but saying that his illness was little or nothing—a cold—and that he hoped in a few days to be able to resume his place at her tea-table. Blanche was present, heard the contents of the note, and if it had been any one’s interest—which it luckily was not—to watch her, would have betrayed by many little signs, her involuntary joy. But, on returning home, that joy was turned to dismay. There was a letter, too, for her—such a letter—it was written from a death-bed, and contained a last farewell! She dismissed her maid, and sat through the first hours of the night, with the letter lying before her. Every feeling of commiseration, of womanly sympathy was touched, and the true womanly wish to comfort and console aroused.
When she arose the next morning, it was with the determination to afford the last sad alleviation in her power to the sufferings she had caused. She accordingly, after attiring herself as modestly as possible, sallied forth, and, on foot, reached M. de Candolles’ abode. Here, for a moment, she paused, and her courage began to fail.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and it would have seemed that all the shopkeepers in the street were determined to take their part of air and light, for Blanche thought they were all congregated upon their respective thresholds to see her pass. She blushed at every step, and felt so confused, that more than once she had nearly stumbled. Before entering the porte cochere she stood an instant still, all the blood rushed to her heart, and she was ready to faint, lest she should be too late! When she had mastered this first strong emotion she began to reflect upon the means of gaining the sufferer’s presence.
Blanche commenced her ascent, but when she reached the topmost stair of the fifth flight, and saw before her the narrow, winding, dirty steps that led to the last story, she paused, and began to wonder whither she was going. How strange that M. de Candolles should live in such a place! M. de Candolles, who was “one of her set,” and whom she had pictured to herself surrounded by the same elegancies of life which, to the small number of individuals she called every body were indispensable!—what could it mean, and where was she going?
She mounted the flight of stairs, and found herself in a long, winding corridor, lighted by skylights placed at stated distances. Doors were on either hand, and they were numbered. Blanche de Vouvray drew her silk dress and her cachemire shawl closely around her, to avoid the contact of the greasy looking wall. She was hesitating whether she would not return at once, when a low moan, followed by a short, hollow cough, struck her ear—all the woman’s pitying sympathy was instantaneously re-awakened, and she advanced, her hand raised in order to knock.
But, reader, let us in a few words depict to you the scene that is yet hidden by that closed door. On a miserable bed stretched upon a paillasse of straw, lies the invalid, upon whose pallid features a ray of light falls mournfully after having filtered through a ragged piece of green calico hung up before the dim pane of the roof-window. The walls are dingy and bare; in one corner only hangs something in the form of clothing, covered by an old square of ticking. On a broken-backed straw chair at the bed-head, rests a broken tea-pot, apparently filled with tisane; whilst upon a small table near the door are crowded together papers and perfume-bottles, inkstands and soiled gloves, a wash-hand basin and a candlestick, a hair-brush and two or three books—the heterogeneous symbols of all the wretched inmate’s wants, vanities and toil!
The night had been a bad one, and the morning sun brought but small alleviation to Ferdinand’s sufferings, whilst the malady itself held him prisoner in its clutches; the want of proper sustenance so weakened his frame that it could oppose no resistance to disease. The brain, without as yet precisely wandering, still from time to time created for itself fair illusions, gentle dreams. One form ever floated before Ferdinand’s mental vision—far, far off, as in another sphere—and he would stretch forth his arms toward the image, and longing, cry to it for a look, a sign of recognition.
A knock came at his door, uncertain, timid, loud; why did they disturb him?—Another knock!—He groaned forth the word to enter, and a hand was laid upon the key.
“Come in,” he again peevishly repeated. The door opened!