MADAMEBASTIEN, whose heart was beating violently, set the lamp on the chimneypiece in the library, and said to her husband:
"What do you wish, monsieur?"
Jacques had reached that degree of drunkenness which is not madness, which leaves the mind even quite clear, but which renders the will implacable; he did not at first reply to the question of Marie, who said again:
"Please, monsieur, I beg you, tell me what you wish of me."
Jacques, both hands in the pockets of his blouse, stood directly in front of his wife; sometimes he knit his eyebrows with a sinister expression as he stared at her, sometimes he smiled with a satirical air.
Finally, addressing Marie with a slow and uncertain voice, for his half-drunken condition retarded his utterance and obliged him to make frequent pauses, he said to her:
"Madame it is about seventeen years and a half that we have been married, is it not?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What good have you been to me?"
"Monsieur!"
"You have not even served me as a wife."
Marie, her cheeks coloured with shame and indignation, started to go out.
Bastien barred the passage and cried elevating his voice:
"Stop there!"
"Silence, monsieur!" said the unhappy woman, whose fears were renewed lest David and Frederick should be awakened by the noise of an altercation.
So, waiting for new outrages, and resigned beforehand to submit to them, she said to Jacques, in a trembling voice:
"For pity's sake, monsieur, do not speak so loud, they will hear you. I will listen to you, as painful as this conversation is to me."
"I tell you that you have been no good to me since we were married; a servant hired for wages would have kept my house better than you, and with less expense."
"Perhaps, monsieur," replied Marie, with a bitter smile, "this servant might not, as I, have reared your son—"
"To hate his father?"
"Monsieur!"
"Enough! I saw that clearly this evening. If you had not prevented him, that blackguard would have used abusive language to me and ranged himself on your side. It is very plain, and he is not the only one. As soon as I arrive here, in my own house, each one of you says, 'There is the enemy, there is the wild boar, there is the ogre!' Ah, well, let me be an ogre; that suits me very well."
"You are mistaken, monsieur; I have always taught your son the respect that is due you, and this evening even—"
"Enough!" cried Hercules, interrupting his wife.
And he pursued his thought with the tenacity of the drunkard, who concentrates upon one idea all the lucidity of mind left to him.
"I tell you again," continued he, "that since our marriage you have served me in nothing; you have made of my son a coxcomb, who requires preceptors and pleasure excursions to drive away his hysterics, and who, over and above that, curses me; you have rifled my wood and my silver, you have stolen from me!"
"Monsieur!" cried Marie, indignant.
"You have stolen from me!" repeated Hercules, in such a thundering voice, that Marie clasped her hands, and murmured:
"Oh, for mercy's sake, monsieur, not so loud, not so loud!"
"Now then, since in these seventeen years you have done me nothing but evil, this cannot last."
"What do you mean?"
"I have enough of it."
"But—"
"I have too much of it. I want no more of it."
"I do not understand you, monsieur."
"No? Well, then, when a person or a thing plagues me, I get rid of it, and the quicker the better."
Notwithstanding his excitement, Madame Bastien did not for a moment believe that her husband thought of killing her; so, trying to discover his intention, under his mask of besotted anger, she said to him:
"If I understand you rightly, monsieur, you have decided to rid yourself of persons who annoy you or displease you?"
"Just so! As your little puppy of a son plagues me, to-morrow I will get rid of him."
"You will get rid of him? But, monsieur—"
"Silence! Bridou will take him; he will take him away with him to-morrow evening, upon our return from Blémur."
"You say, monsieur, that M. Bridou will take my son; please explain to me."
"He will take him for his board as a young clerk, and your Benjamin who is not mine will be lodged, fed, and washed, and at eighteen years will get six hundred francs, if Bridou is satisfied with him."
"Nobody will dispose of my son's future without my consent, monsieur."
"Eh!" replied Jacques, with a sort of hollow roar.
"Oh, monsieur, if you were to kill me on the spot, I would say the same thing."
"Eh!" again roared the colossus, more threatening still.
"I tell you, monsieur, that my son shall not leave me. He will continue his studies under the direction of his preceptor. I will inform you, if you wish, of the plans I have for Frederick, and—"
"Ah! that is it, is it?" cried the colossus, furious at the resistance of his wife. "Ah, well, to-morrow I will take this Latin spitter by the shoulders and kick him out of my door. Another one who plagues me, and I will get rid of. As to you—"
"What will be my fate, monsieur?"
"You shall clear the house, like the others."
"What do you say, monsieur?"
"When I have enough of a thing, or when I have too much of a thing or a person, I get rid of it."
"So, monsieur, you intend to drive me out of your house?"
"Still stubborn, are you? For seventeen years you have been no good to me, you have turned my son against me, you have plundered my wood, stolen my silver,—all that plagues me, and I wish to get rid of it. But to begin, where are your jewels?"
"My jewels?" asked Marie, astonished at this unexpected demand.
"Yes, your jewels, valued at nearly one thousand francs; go and get them and give them to me; that will compensate me for the silver you have robbed me of."
"I do not own these jewels any longer, monsieur."
"What!"
"I have sold them."
"What!" cried Jacques, stammering with anger, "you—you—you—"
"I have sold them, monsieur, at the same time the silver was sold, and for the same object."
"You lie!" cried the colossus, in a formidable voice.
"Oh, speak lower, monsieur, I implore you, speak lower."
"You are hiding your jewels to keep from paying me," added Hercules, taking a step toward his wife with his fists clenched, and his face livid with rage; "you are twice a thief!"
"Please, monsieur, do not scream so!" cried the young woman, not thinking of the grossness of the insults heaped upon her, but fearing that Frederick and David might be awakened by his loud talk.
In short, furious that he could not obtain his wife's jewels as a compensation for the loss of his silver,—the one idea which had occupied his mind the whole evening,—Jacques, excited to frenzy by wine and disappointed rage, cried out:
"Ah! you have hidden those jewels, have you? Well, it will not be to-morrow that you will go out of my house, but it will be to-night,—at once."
"Monsieur, this is a cruel jest," replied Marie, overcome by so many bitter experiences. "I desire to go to my chamber; it is late, and I am chilled. To-morrow we will talk seriously; you will then regain your self-possession, and—"
"That is as much as to say I am drunk now, eh?"
"To-morrow, monsieur. Permit me to retire."
Jacques, dreadful with anger, hatred, and drunkenness, walked up to his wife, and pointing to the dark corridor which conducted to the outside door, said:
"Go out of my house! I order you out, you double thief!"
Marie could not believe that Jacques was speaking seriously. She had been trying to end the painful conversation as soon as possible, to prevent the intervention of David and her son. So she answered, addressing her husband with the greatest sweetness, hoping thereby to calm him:
"Monsieur, I beseech you, go to your chamber, and let me go to mine. I repeat to you that to-morrow—"
"God's thunder!" cried Jacques, beside himself with rage, "I did not tell you to go back to your chamber, but to go out of my house. Must I take you by the shoulders and put you out?"
"Outside!" cried Marie, who understood from the ferocity of Bastien's face that he was speaking seriously.
It was ferocity, it was stupidity, but what could be expected from such a wretch, made furious by drink.
"Outside!" said Marie again, terrified. "But, monsieur, you do not mean it; it is night, it is cold."
"What is all that to me?"
"Monsieur, I beseech you, come to yourself. My God! it is one o'clock in the morning; where do you wish me to go?"
"I will—"
"But, monsieur—"
"Once more! will you go out, thief?"
And the colossus made a step toward his wife.
"Monsieur, one word, just one word!"
"Twice, will you go out?"
And Jacques took another step toward his wife.
"Please listen to me."
"Three times! will you go out?"
And the Hercules turned up his sleeves to take hold of his wife.
What could the unfortunate woman do?
Cry,—call for help?
Frederick and David would awaken, would run to the spot, and for Marie, there was something more horrible than this cruel, outrageous expulsion; it was the shame, the dreadful idea of being seen by her son fighting against her husband, who wished to thrust her, half naked, out of his house. Her dignity as wife and as mother revolted at this thought, and above all, at the idea of a desperate struggle between her son and her husband which might result in murder,—in parricide,—for Frederick would not stop at any extremity to defend a mother driven out of the house. Marie then submitted, and when Jacques started to seize her and repeated:
"Three times! will you go out?"
"Ah, well, yes, yes, monsieur, I will go out," she replied, in a trembling voice. "I am going out immediately, but no noise, I implore you!"
Then desperate, extending her supplicating hands toward Jacques, who, still threatening, walked up to her and pointed to the outside door, Marie, going backwards step by step in the darkness, at last reached the end of the corridor.
Bastien opened the door.
A puff of icy wind rushed through the entrance.
Outside, nothing but darkness and drifting snow.
"Oh, my God! what a night!" murmured Marie, terrified in spite of her resolution, and wishing to turn back; "mercy, monsieur!"
"Good evening!" said the wretch, with a ferocious giggle, as he pushed his wife out of the door.
Then, shutting the door again, he bolted it.
Marie, bareheaded, and with no clothing but her dressing-gown, felt her feet sink into the thick layer of snow with which the floor of the porch was already covered, in spite of the rustic roof.
A ray of hope remained to the poor woman; for a moment, she believed that her husband was only perpetrating a joke as cruel as it was stupid; but she heard Jacques walking away heavily.
Soon he had reached his chamber, as Marie discovered by the light which shone through the window-blinds.
Frozen by the sharp, penetrating north wind, Marie's teeth began to chatter convulsively. She tried to reach the stables situated in a neighbouring building. Unfortunately she found the garden gate fastened, and then she remembered that this garden, surrounded by buildings on all sides, was enclosed by a fence, in the middle of which was a door which she could not succeed in opening.
Three windows overlooked this garden, two belonging to the apartment of Jacques Bastien, and the other to the dining-room, where nobody slept.
Marie had no other help to expect.
She resigned herself to her fate.
The poor creature came back to the porch, swept off the snow which covered the threshold with her hands, and already chilled, stiffened by the cold, seated herself on the stone step, barely sheltered by the roof of the porch.
JACQUESBASTIEN, after having brutally put his wife out of the house, returned to his chamber with a tottering step, threw himself on the bed in his clothes, and fell into a profound sleep.
At three o'clock, according to the order he had given in the evening, Marguerite carried a light to her master and found him asleep; she had much difficulty in awakening him, and announced to him that old André had hitched the horse to the little carriage.
Jacques, still heavy with sleep and the consequences of his intoxication, which obscured his ideas, shook himself in his garments, like a tawny beast in his fur, passed his hand through his tangled hair, put on his back over his clothes an overcoat of goatskin with long hairs, rinsed his mouth with a full glass of brandy, and sent Marguerite to inform Bridou that all was ready for their departure.
Bastien's head was aching, his ideas confused, and he scarcely had a vague remembrance of his atrocious brutality toward his wife; he struggled painfully against a violent desire to sleep, and while waiting for his companion, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, where he was beginning to sleep again, when Bridou entered.
"Come, Jacques, come along," said the bailiff; "you look stupid all over, old fellow, shake yourself up."
"There! there!" replied M. Bastien, standing upon his legs and rubbing his eyes. "My head is heavy and my eyes full of sand,—perhaps the fresh air will revive me. Wait, Bridou, drink a drop, and then we will set off on our journey. It is twelve miles from here to Blémur."
"To your health, then, old fellow!" said the bailiff, pouring out a glass of brandy. "Ah, so, you will not drink?"
"Yes, indeed, it will wake me up, for my brain is devilishly confused."
And, after having swallowed a new bumper of brandy, which, far from clearing his ideas, rendered them all the more confused, Bastien, preceding Bridou, went out of his chamber, followed the corridor and opened the door, through which he had driven his wife two hours before.
But Marie had left the porch where she had at first cowered.
The snow had ceased to fall.
The moon shone in the sky, the cold was becoming more and more intense. Jacques felt it keenly, for he had just swallowed two glasses of brandy, and for a few moments he seemed bewildered, walking directly before him across the lawn, instead of following the walk which led to the gate.
Bridou saw the distraction of his friend and said to him:
"Jacques, Jacques, where in the devil are you going?"
"Sure enough," responded the Hercules, stopping short and balancing himself on his legs. "Sure enough, old fellow," said he. "I do not know what is the matter with me; I am besotted this morning. I go to the right when I mean to go to the left. It is the cold which pinches me so when I come out of the house."
"It is enough to pinch one!" replied Bridou, shivering. "I have a hood and a comforter, and I am frozen."
"You chilly fellow, go on!"
"That is very easy for you to say."
"Come, Bridou, do you want my skin?"
"What! your skin?"
"My goatskin, you idiot!"
"And what will you do, Jacques?"
"Take it; when I get into the carriage the heat will fly to my head, and I shall sleep in spite of myself."
"Then, Jacques, I accept your skin all the more cheerfully, my old fellow, for if you fall asleep you will turn us over."
"Here, put it on," said Jacques, taking off his goatskin, in which his companion soon wrapped himself. "Come, now," said Bastien, passing his hand over his forehead, "I feel more like myself; I am better."
And Jacques, with a less unsteady step, reached the gate that André had just opened from the outside, as he led the old white horse, hitched to the carriage, to a convenient spot for his master.
Bastien jumped into the carriage first; Bridou, embarrassed by the goatskin, stumbled on the foot-board.
"Take care, master, take care," said old André, deceived by the goatskin, and thinking he was addressing M. Bastien. "Pay attention, master!"
"Jacques, this must be a regular lion's skin," whispered the bailiff. "Your servant takes me for you, old fellow, because I have on your cloak."
Bastien, whose mind continued to be somewhat confused, took the reins and said to André, who stood at the horse's head:
"Is the old road to Blémur good?"
"The old road? Why, nobody can pass, monsieur."
"Why?"
"Because the overflow has washed up everything, monsieur, without counting the embankment on the side of the pond which has been swept away,—so from that place the road is still covered ten feet in water."
"That is a pity, for that would have shortened our way wonderfully," replied Bastien, whipping the horse so vigorously that it started off at a full gallop.
"Softly, Jacques, softly," said the bailiff, beginning to feel concerned about his comrade's condition. "The roads are not good and you must not upset us. Come, come now, Jacques, do pay attention! Ah, you do not look an inch before you!"
We will leave M. Bridou in his constantly increasing perplexity and will return to the farm.
As we have said, Marie, after having tried in vain to reach the stable through the garden gate, came back and cowered down in one of the corners of the porch.
During the first half-hour the cold had caused her the most painful suffering. To this torture succeeded a sort of numbness at first very distressing; then soon followed a state of almost complete insensibility, an invincible torpor, which in such circumstances often proves a transition to death.
Marie, brave as ever, preserved her presence of mind a long time and tried to divert her thoughts from the danger that she was running, saying to herself that at three o'clock in the morning there must necessarily be some stir in the house caused by the departure of M. Bastien, who wished, as Marguerite had told her, to set out on his journey at the rising of the moon.
Whether he left or not, the young woman intended to profit by the going and coming of Marguerite, and to make herself heard by rapping either on the door of the corridor or the blinds of the dining-room, and thus gain an entrance into her chamber.
But the terrible influence of the cold—the rapid and piercing effects of which were unknown to Madame Bastien—froze, so to speak, her thoughts, as it froze her limbs.
At the end of the half-hour the exhausted woman yielded to an unconquerable drowsiness, from which she would rise a moment by sheer force of courage, to fall back again into a deeper sleep than before.
About three o'clock in the morning, the light that Marguerite carried had several times shone through the window-blinds, and her steps had resounded behind the front door.
But Marie, in an ever increasing torpor, saw nothing and heard nothing.
Fortunately, in one of the rare periods when she succeeded in rousing herself from her stupor, she trembled at the voice of Bastien; as he went out with Bridou he noisily drew the bolt of the door.
At the voice of her husband the young woman, by an almost superhuman effort of will, roused herself from her stupor, rose, although stiff and almost bent double by the icy cold, went out of the porch, and hid herself behind one of the ivy-covered posts, just as the door opened before Bastien and Bridou, who went out through the garden gate. Marie, seeing the two men depart, slipped into the house and reached her chamber without having met Marguerite. But the moment she rang, her strength failed, and she fell on the floor unconscious.
The servant ran at the sound of her mistress's bell, found her lying in the middle of the floor, and cried, as she stooped to lift her up:
"Great God! madame, what has happened to you?"
"Silence!" murmured the young woman in a feeble voice; "do not wake my son! Help me to get back to bed."
"Alas! madame," said the servant, sustaining Marie as the poor woman got into bed, "you are shivering, you are frozen."
"To-night," replied the young mother, with a failing voice, "feeling myself in pain I tried to rise to ring for you. I had not the strength, I was ill, and just this moment I dragged myself to the chimney to call you, and I—"
The young woman did not finish; her teeth clashed together, her head fell back, and she fainted.
Marguerite, frightened at the responsibility resting on her, and losing her presence of mind entirely, cried, as she ran to Frederick's chamber:
"Monsieur, monsieur! get up! madame is very ill." Then, returning to Marie, she cried, kneeling down by the bed:
"My God! what must I do, what must I do?"
At the end of a few moments Frederick, having put on his dressing-gown, came out of his chamber.
Imagine his agony at the sight of his mother,—pale, inanimate, and from time to time writhing under a convulsive chill.
"Mother," cried Frederick, kneeling in despair by Marie's pillow. "Mother, answer me, what is the matter?"
"Alas! M. Frederick," said Marguerite, sobbing, "madame is unconscious. What shall I do, my God, what shall I do?"
"Marguerite," cried Frederick, "run and wake M. David."
While Frederick, in unspeakable terror, remained near his mother, the servant hurried to André's chamber, where David had spent the night. The preceptor, dressing himself in haste, opened the door for Marguerite.
"My God! what is the matter?"
"M. David, a great trouble,—madame—"
"Go on."
"To-night she was taken ill and rose to ring for me; all her strength failed her; she had fallen in the middle of her chamber, where she lay a long time on the floor; when I entered and helped her to bed she was frozen."
"On such a night,—it is frightful!" cried David, turning pale; "and now, how is she?"
"My God! M. David, she has fainted away. Poor M. Frederick is on his knees at her pillow sobbing; he calls her, but she hears nothing. It was he who told me to run for you, because we do not know what to do, we have all lost our head."
"You must tell André to hitch up and go in haste to Pont Brillant for Doctor Dufour. Run, run, Marguerite."
"Alas! monsieur, that is impossible. Master left this morning at three o'clock with the horse, and André is so old that he would take I do not know how much time to go to the city."
"I will go," said David, with a calmness which belied the agitation depicted in his face.
"You, M. David, go to the city on foot so far this freezing night!"
"In an hour," replied David, as he finished dressing himself for the journey, "Doctor Dufour will be here. Tell Frederick that to calm him. While waiting my return, you had better take some warm tea to Madame Bastien. Try to get her warm by covering her with care, and drawing her bed near the large fire which you must kindle immediately. Come, courage, Marguerite," added David, taking his hat and hastily descending the stairs; "be sure to tell Frederick Doctor Dufour will be here in an hour."
Marguerite, after having conducted David to the garden gate, came to get the lamp that she had left on the threshold of the door, sheltered by the rustic porch.
As she stooped to take up the lamp she saw, half hidden by the snow, a neckerchief of orange silk belonging to Madame Bastien, and almost in the same spot she found a little slipper of red morocco encrusted, so to speak, in the snow hardened by the ice.
More and more surprised, and wondering how these articles, which evidently belonged to her mistress, came to be there, Marguerite, struck with a sudden idea, picked up the neckerchief and the slipper, then, with the aid of her lamp, she examined attentively the pavement of the corridor.
There she recognised the recent imprint of snow-covered feet, so that in following this trace of Madame Bastien's little feet she noticed the last tracks at the door of her mistress. Suddenly Marguerite recollected that when she had assisted her mistress, overcome by the cold, to get in bed, it had not been unmade; other circumstances corroborated these observations, and the servant, terrified at the discovery she had just made, entered Madame Bastien's chamber, where Frederick was sitting near his mother.
An hour and a quarter after David's departure a cabriolet with two horses white with foam and marked with the postilion's whip stopped at the door of the farm.
David and Doctor Dufour descended from this carriage.
ABOUTthree hours had passed since the doctor had arrived at the farm.
David, discreetly withdrawn into the library, waited with mortal anxiety the news of Madame Bastien, with whom the doctor and Frederick remained.
Once only, David, standing in the door of the library, and seeing Marguerite rapidly passing, as she came from the chamber of her mistress, called, in a low voice:
"Ah, well, Marguerite?"
"Ah, M. David!" was the only reply of the weeping woman, who passed on without stopping.
"She is dying," said David, returning to the library.
And pale, his features distorted, his heart broken, he threw himself in an armchair, hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears, vainly trying to suppress his sobs.
"I have realised the despair of this restrained, hidden, impossible love," murmured he. "I thought I had suffered cruelly,—what is it to suffer derision compared to the fear of losing Marie? To lose her,—she to die—no, no! oh, but I will at least see her!"
And almost crazed with grief, David rushed across the room, but he stopped at the door.
"She is dying, perhaps, and I have no right to assist at her agony. What am I here? A stranger. Let me listen—nothing—nothing—the silence of the tomb. My God! in this chamber, where she perhaps is in the agony of death, what is happening? Ah, some one is coming out. It is Pierre."
And David, taking one step into the corridor, saw in the twilight of the dark passage, the doctor coming out of Marie's chamber.
"Pierre," said he, in a low voice, to hasten his coming, "Pierre!"
Doctor Dufour advanced rapidly toward David, when the latter heard a voice whisper:
"Doctor, I must speak to you."
At this voice Doctor Dufour stopped abruptly before the door of the dining-room, where he entered.
"Whose is this voice?" thought David. "Is it Marguerite? My God! what has happened?" and he listened on the side where the doctor entered. "It is Pierre who is talking; his exclamations announce indignation, dismay. There, he is coming out at last; here he is."
In fact, Doctor Dufour, his face altered, and frowning with anger, entered the library, his hands still clasped in a gesture of horror, and exclaimed:
"It is horrible! it is infamous!"
David, thinking only of Marie, sprang to meet his friend.
"Pierre, in the name of Heaven, how is she? The truth! I will have courage, but for pity's sake, the truth, frightful as it may be. There is no torture equal to what I have endured here for three hours, asking myself, is she living, agonising, or dead?"
The distorted features of David, his glowing eyes, red with recent tears, the inflection of his voice, betrayed at the same time so much despair and so much love, that Doctor Dufour, although himself under the power of violent emotion, stopped short at the sight of his friend, and gazed at him some moments before replying to him.
"Pierre, you tell me nothing, nothing!" cried David, distracted with grief. "Is she dying, then?"
"No, Henri, she is not dying."
"She will live!" cried David.
At this hope, his face became transfigured; he pressed the physician to his breast, as he murmured, unable to restrain his tears:
"I shall owe you more than life, Pierre."
"Henri," replied the doctor, with a sigh, "I have not said that she would live."
"You fear?"
"Very much."
"Oh, my God! but at least you hope?"
"I dare not yet."
"And how is she at this moment?"
"More calm, she is sleeping."
"Oh, she must live, she must live, Pierre! she will live, will she not? she will live?"
"Henri, you love her."
Recalled to himself by these words of his friend, David trembled, remained silent, with his eyes fixed on the eyes of the doctor.
The latter answered, in a grave and sad tone:
"Henri, you love her. I have not surprised your secret. You have just revealed it yourself."
"I?"
"By your grief."
"It is true, I love her."
"Henri," cried the doctor, with tears in his eyes and with deep emotion, "Henri, I pity you, oh, I pity you."
"It is a love without hope, I know it; but let her live, and I will bless the torments that I must endure near her, because her son, who binds us for ever, will always be a link between her and me."
"Yes, your love is without hope, Henri; yes, delicacy will always prevent your ever letting Marie suspect your sentiments. But that is not all, and I repeat it to you, Henri, you are more to be pitied than you think."
"My God! Pierre, what do you mean?"
"Do you know? But wait, my blood boils, my indignation burns, everything in me revolts, because I cannot speak of such a base atrocity with calmness."
"Unhappy woman, it concerns her. Oh, speak, speak, I pray you. You crush me, you kill me!"
"Just now I was coming to join you."
"And some one stopped you in the passage."
"It was Marguerite. Do you know where Madame Bastien spent a part of the night?"
"What do you mean?"
"She spent it out of her house."
"She? the night out of her house?"
"Yes, her husband thrust her outdoors, half naked, this bitter cold night."
David shuddered through his whole body, then pressing both hands to his forehead as if to restrain the violence of his thoughts, he said to the doctor, in a broken voice:
"Wait, Pierre; I have heard your words, but I do not understand their import. A cloud seems to be passing over my mind."
"At first, neither did I understand it, my friend; it was too monstrous. Marguerite, yesterday evening, a little while after leaving her mistress, heard a long conversation, sometimes in a low voice, sometimes with violence, in the library, then walking in the corridor; then the noise of a door which opened and shut, then nothing more. In the night, after the departure of M. Bastien, Marguerite, rung up by her mistress, thought at first Marie had fainted, but later, by certain indications, she had the proof that her mistress had been compelled to stay from midnight until three o'clock, in the porch, exposed to all the severity of this freezing night. So, this sickness, mortal perhaps—"
"But it is a murder!" cried David, mad with grief and rage. "That man is an assassin!"
"The wretch was drunk as Marguerite has told me; it was in consequence of an altercation with the unhappy woman that he thrust her outdoors."
"Pierre, this man will return presently; he has insulted me grossly twice; I intend to provoke him and kill him."
"Henri, keep calm."
"I wish to kill him."
"Listen to me."
"If he refuses to fight me, I will assassinate him and kill myself afterward. Marie shall be delivered from him."
"Henri, Henri! this is madness!"
"Oh, my God! she, she, treated in this way!" said David, in a heartrending voice. "To know that this angel of purity, this adorable mother and saint, is always at the mercy of this stupid and brutal man! And do you not see that if she does not die this time, he will kill her some other time?"
"I believe it, Henri, and yet he need not have her in his power."
"And you are not willing that I—"
"Henri," cried the doctor, seizing his friend's hand with effusion, "Henri, noble and excellent heart, come to yourself, be what you have always been, full of generosity and courage,—yes, of courage, for it is necessary to have courage to accomplish a cruel sacrifice, but one indispensable to the salvation of Madame Bastien."
"A sacrifice for Marie's salvation! Oh, speak, speak!"
"Brave, noble heart, you are yourself again, and I was wrong to tell you that you were more to be pitied than you thought, for souls like yours live upon sacrifices and renunciations. Listen to me, Henri,—admitting that I can save Madame Bastien from the disease she has contracted to-night, a most dangerous inflammation of the lungs, this angelic woman ought not to remain in the power of this wretch."
"Go on, finish!"
"There is an honourable and lawful means of snatching from this man the victim that he has tortured for seventeen years."
"And what is this means?"
"A legal separation."
"And how is it to be obtained?"
"The atrocious conduct of this man, during this night, is a serious charge of cruelty. Marguerite will testify to it; it will not be necessary to have more to obtain a separation, and besides, I myself will see the judges, and I will tell them, with all the ardour and indignation of an honest heart, the conduct of Bastien toward his wife since his marriage; I will tell them of Marie's angelic resignation, of her admirable devotion to her son, and above all, of the purity of her life."
"Stop, Pierre; a little while ago I spoke like a madman. To beastly wickedness, I responded with homicidal violence. You are right, Madame Bastien must be separated from her husband, that she may be free." And at this thought, David could not repress a thrill of hope. "Yes, let her be free, and then, being able to dispose of her son's future, and—"
"Henri," said the physician, interrupting his friend, "you must understand that to make this separation worthy and honourable on Marie's part, it is essential that you go away."
"I!" cried David, shocked at the words of the doctor, who continued, in a firm voice:
"Henri, I repeat to you, it is absolutely essential for you to go away."
"Leave her, leave her dying? Never!"
"My friend!"
"Never! neither would she consent to it."
"What do you mean?"
"No, she would not allow me to depart,—abandon her son, whom I love as my child,—abandon him in the very moment we are about to realise our highest hopes,—it would be the most culpable folly. I would not do it, and this dear boy would not endure it either. You do not know what he is to me, you do not know what I am to him; indissoluble ties unite us,—him and his mother, and myself."
"I know all that, Henri; I know the power of these ties; I know too that your love, of which perhaps Marie is ignorant, is as pure as it is respectful."
"And you wish to send me away?"
"Yes, because I know that Marie and you are both young; because you are compelled every moment to associate intimately; because the expression of the gratitude she owes you would, to suspicious eyes, seem the expression of a more tender sentiment; because, in fact, I know that the old Marquise of Pont Brillant, shameless old dowager if there is one, has made at the castle, in the presence of twenty persons, wicked and satirical allusions to the age and appearance of the preceptor that Madame Bastien has chosen for her son."
"Oh, that is infamous!"
"Yes, it is infamous; yes, it is shameful; but you will give plausibility to these calumnies, if you remain in this house while Madame Bastien, after seventeen years of marriage, is suing for a separation."
"But I swear to you, Pierre, she knows nothing of my love; for you know well that I would rather die than say one word to her of this love, because she owes the salvation of her son to me."
"I have no doubt of you, or of her, but I repeat to you, that your prolonged sojourn in this house will prove an irreparable injury to Marie."
"Pierre, these fears are foolish."
"These fears are only too well founded; your presence here, so wickedly misconstrued, will be a reproach to the stainless purity of Marie's life; her request for a separation will be judged beforehand, and perhaps rejected. Then Bastien, more than ever irritated against his wife, will treat her with renewed cruelty, and he will kill her, Henri,—kill her legally, kill her honourably, as so many husbands kill their wives."
The justice of the doctor's words was evident; David could not fail to recognise it. Wishing, however, to cling to a last and forlorn hope, he said:
"But, really, Pierre, how can I leave Frederick, who, this present moment, needs all my care? For his mental health is scarcely confirmed. Dear child! to leave at the very time when I see such a glorious future in store for him?"
"But, remember, pray, that this evening M. Bastien will be here, that he will tell you, perhaps, to leave the house,—for after all, he is master of this house; then what will you do?"
The conversation between David and the doctor was interrupted by Frederick, who entered hurriedly and said to Doctor Dufour:
"My mother has just awakened from her sleep, and desires to speak to you at once."
"My child," said the physician to Frederick, "I have something special to say to your mother. Please remain here with David."
And turning to his friend, he added:
"Henri, I can rely on you; you understand me?"
"I understand you."
"You give me your word to do what you ought to do?"
After a long hesitation, during which Frederick, surprised at these mysterious words, looked alternately at the doctor and David, the latter replied, in a firm voice, as he extended his hand to his friend.
"Pierre, you have my word."
"That is well," said the physician with deep emotion, as he pressed David's hand.
Then he added:
"I have only fulfilled one half of my task."
"What do you mean, Pierre?" cried David, as he saw the physician directing his steps to Marie's chamber, "what are you going to do?"
"My duty," replied the doctor.
And, leaving David and Frederick in the library, he entered Madame Bastien's chamber.
WHENDoctor Dufour entered Madame Bastien's room, he found her in bed, and Marguerite seated by her pillow.
Marie, whose beauty was so radiant the evening before, was pale and exhausted; a burning fever coloured her cheeks and made her large blue eyes glitter under her heavy, half-closed eyelids; from time to time, a sharp, dry cough racked her bosom, upon which the sick woman frequently pressed her hand, as if to suppress a keen, agonising pain.
At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said to her servant:
"Leave us, Marguerite."
"Well, how are you?" said the doctor, when they were left alone.
"This cough pains me and tears my chest, my good doctor; my sleep has been disturbed by dreadful dreams, the effect of the fever, no doubt, but, we will not speak of that," added Marie with an accent of angelic resignation. "I wish to consult you upon important matters, good doctor, and I must hurry, for, two or three times since I awoke, I have felt my thoughts slipping away from me."
"Do not distress yourself about that, for it belongs to the weak state which almost always follows the excitement of fever."
"I wished to speak to you first, to you alone, before asking M. David and my son to come in, as we will have all three to confer together afterward."
"I am listening to you, madame."
"You know my husband came home yesterday evening."
"I know it," said the doctor, unable to restrain a shudder of indignation.
"I had a long and painful discussion with him on the subject of my son. In spite of my claims and my prayer, M. Bastien is resolved to enter Frederick with M. Bridou as a bailiff's clerk. That would make it necessary for me to thank M. David for his care, and separate myself from my son."
"And you cannot consent to that?"
"So long as there is a spark of life left in me, I will defend my right to my child. As to him, you know the firmness of his character. Never will he be willing to leave me or forsake M. David and enter the house of M. Bridou. M. Bastien will soon return, and he is going to claim the right to take away my son."
Marie, overcome by the emotion she was trying to combat, was obliged to pause a moment, and was attacked by such a dangerous fit of coughing, united to such a painful oppression in the chest, that the doctor involuntarily raised his eyes to Heaven with grief. After taking a drink prepared by the doctor, Marie continued:
"Such is our position, my dear doctor, and before the return of M. Bastien, we must resolve upon something decisive, or—" and Marie became deathly pale—"or something terrible will happen here, for you know how violent M. Bastien is, and how resolute Frederick is; and as to me, I feel that, sick as I am, to take away my son is to strike me with death."
"Madame, the moments are precious; permit me first to appeal to your sincerity and frankness."
"Speak."
"Yesterday evening, at the conclusion of the discussion which you had with your husband, a most atrocious thing occurred, and that night—"
"Monsieur."
"I know all, madame."
"Once more, doctor—"
"I know all, I tell you, and, with your habitual courage, you did, I am certain of it, submit to this abominable treatment, in order not to make public this outrageous deed, and to avoid a collision between your son and your husband. Oh, do not try to deny it; your safety and the safety of your son depend upon the sincerity of your confession."
"My safety! my son's safety!"
"Come, madame, do you think the law has no redress for such atrocities as those your husband has been guilty of toward you? No, no! and there are witnesses of his unreasonable brutality. And these witnesses, Marguerite and myself, to whom you have applied for medical attention, as a consequence of the injuries you have sustained, we, I say, will authorise and justify your demand for separation. This demand must be formulated to-day."
"A separation!" cried Marie, clasping her hands in a transport of joy, "will it be possible?"
"Yes, and you will obtain it; trust yourself to me, madame. I will see your judges, I will establish your rights, your illness, your grievances; but before formulating this demand," added the doctor, with hesitation, for he appreciated the delicacy of the question raised, "it is essential for David to go away."
At these words, Marie trembled with surprise and distress; with her eyes fixed on those of Doctor Dufour, she tried to divine his thought, unable to comprehend why he, David's best friend, should insist upon his going away.
"Separate us from M. David," said she finally, "at the time my son has so much need of his care?"
"Madame, believe me, the departure of David is essential. David himself realises it, because he has resolved to go."
"M. David!"
"I have his word."
"It is impossible!"
"I have his word, madame."
"He! he! abandon us at such a time!"
"In order to save you and your son."
"In order to save us?"
"His presence near you, madame, would compromise the success of your demand for a separation."
"Why is that?"
There was so much candour and sincerity in Marie's question, she revealed so thoroughly the innocence of her heart, that the doctor had not the heart to give a new pain to this angelic creature by telling her of the odious reports being circulated about herself and David, so he replied:
"You cannot doubt, madame, the devotion and affection of David. He knows all that is to be regretted in his departure, all that is most painful to Frederick, but he knows also that his departure is absolutely necessary."
"He, depart!"
At the heartrending tone with which Marie uttered the two words, "He, depart," the doctor realised the depth of Marie's love for David for the first time, and as he thought of this deep and pure affection, the outcome of the noblest sentiments and the holiest feelings, his heart sank. He knew well Marie's virtue and David's delicacy, and hence he saw no end to this fatal passion.
Marie, after weeping silently turned her pale, sad, and tear-stained face to the doctor, and said to him, sorrowfully:
"M. David thinks it is best to go away, and my son and I will resign ourselves to it. Your friend has given too many proofs of his devotion to permit us to question his heart for a moment, but I must tell you his departure will be a terrible blow to my son."
"But you will remain with him, madame, for I do not doubt that once your separation is obtained, you will be allowed to keep your son."
"You hope then they will leave me my son?"
"Without doubt."
"How," replied Marie, clasping her hands and looking at the doctor with inexpressible anguish, "could there be a doubt that they will leave me my son?"
"He is more than sixteen years old, and in a case of separation, the son follows the father; a daughter would be given to you."
"But, then," replied Marie, all excited with fear, "what good is this separation, if I am not sure of keeping my son?"
"First, to assure your peace, your life perhaps, because your husband—"
"But my son, my son?"
"We will do everything in the world to have him given to you."
"And if they do not give him to me?"
"Alas! madame."
"Let us think no more of this separation, Doctor Dufour."
"Think, then, madame, what it is to remain at the mercy of a wretch who will kill you some day."
"But at least, before that happens, he will not have taken my son away from me."
"He will take him away from you, madame. Did he not wish to do so yesterday?"
"Oh, my God!" cried Marie, falling back on her pillow with such an expression of grief and despair that the doctor ran to her, exclaiming:
"In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?"
"Doctor Dufour," said Marie, in a feeble voice, closing her eyes and overcome by grief, "I am utterly exhausted. No matter which way I look at the future, it is horrible; what shall I do, my God! what shall I do? The hour approaches when my husband will return and take away my son with him. Oh, for my sake, put yourself between Frederick and his father! Oh, if you only knew what I dread, I—"
And the words expired on her lips, for the unhappy woman again sank into unconsciousness.
The doctor hastened to ring the bell violently, then he returned to the help of Madame Bastien.
The servant not replying to the bell, the doctor opened the door and called:
"Marguerite! Marguerite!"
At the alarmed voice of the doctor, Frederick, who had remained in the library, rushed to his mother's chamber, followed by David, who, forgetting all propriety, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, wished to see the woman he was about to leave, for the last time.
"Frederick, support your mother," cried Doctor Dufour, "and you, Henri, go quick for some cold water in the dining-room—somewhere. I do not know where Marguerite is."
David ran to execute the doctor's orders, while Frederick, supporting his mother in his arms, for she was almost without consciousness, said to the doctor, in a broken voice:
"Oh, my God! this fainting fit, how long it lasts! how pale she is! Help, help!"
Marguerite suddenly appeared; her distorted features presented a singular expression of astonishment, terror, and satisfaction.
"Doctor," cried she, almost breathless, "if you only knew!"
"Pierre, here is what you asked me for," said David, running and giving him a bottle filled with fresh water, of which the doctor poured out several spoonfuls in a cup.
Then addressing the servant in a low voice, he said:
"Marguerite, give me that vial, there on the chimneypiece. But what is the matter with you?" added Doctor Dufour, as he saw the old servant standing still and trembling in every limb. "Speak, do speak!"
"Ah! monsieur," replied the servant, in a whisper, "it is what takes my breath away. If you only knew!"
"Well, finish, what is it?"
"Master is dead!"
At these words the doctor stepped back, forgot Marie, stood petrified, and looked at the servant, unable to utter a word.
David experienced such a violent commotion of feeling that he was obliged to lean against the wainscoting.
Frederick, holding his mother in his arms, turned abruptly toward Marguerite, murmuring:
"Oh, my God! Dead—dead—my father!"
And he hid his face in his mother's bosom.
Marie, although in a swoon, caused by complete prostration of her strength, was sufficiently conscious to hear.
Marguerite's words, "Master is dead," reached her ears, but dimly and vague as the thought of a dream.
The doctor broke the solemn silence which had greeted the servant's words and said to her:
"How do you know? Explain yourself."
"This night," replied the servant, "master, about six miles from here, wanted to cross a ford on a route covered by the overflow. The horse and carriage were dragged into the water. They have not found the body of M. Bridou, but they recognised master's body by his goatskin cloak; it was ground under the wheels of the mill at the pond; they found half his coat in one of the wheels; one of the pockets contained several letters addressed to master. It is by that the mayor of Blémur, who is there with a gendarme, knew that it was master who was drowned, and he has drawn up the act of death."
When the servant had finished her recital in the midst of a religious silence, Madame Bastien recalled to herself entirely by the profound and violent reaction produced by this unexpected news, clasped her son to her bosom passionately, and said:
"We will never leave each other, never!"
Marie was about to seek David's eyes, instinctively, but an exquisite delicacy forbade it; she turned her eyes away, her pallor was replaced by a faint colour, and she pressed her son in a new embrace.
ABOUTthree weeks had elapsed since the death of M. Bastien had been announced.
So many violent and contrary emotions had complicated Marie's disease, and rendered it still more dangerous. For two days her condition had been almost desperate, then by degrees it improved, thanks to the skill of Doctor Dufour and the ineffable hope from which the young woman drew enough force, enough desire to live, to combat death.
At the end of a few days the convalescence of Marie began, and although this convalescence was necessarily tedious and demanded the most careful attention, for fear of a relapse more to be dreaded than the disease itself, all alarm had ceased.
Is it necessary to say that since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien, David and Marie had not uttered one word which made allusion to their secret and assured hopes?
These two pure souls had the exquisite bashfulness of happiness, and although the death of Jacques Bastien could not be regretted, David and Marie respected religiously his ashes, which were scarcely cold, however unworthy of respect the man had been.
The illness of Madame Bastien, and the fears entertained so many days for her life, produced a sincere sorrow in the country, and her recovery a universal joy; these testimonials of touching sympathy, addressed as much to Frederick as to his mother, and the consciousness of a future which had, so to speak, no fault save that of being too bright, confirmed and hastened the convalescence of Marie, who, at the end of three weeks, felt only an excessive weakness which prevented her leaving her chamber.
As soon as her condition was no longer critical, she desired Frederick to undertake the studies planned for him by David, and to receive a part of them in her apartment, and she experienced an indescribable delight in seeing, united under her eyes, those two beings so much loved, and from whom she had so dreaded to be separated. Her presence at these lessons gave her a thousand joys. First the tender, enlightened interest of David, then the indomitable enthusiasm of the young man, who longed for a glorious, illustrious destiny, that he might be the pride and joy of his mother, and satisfy his ambitious envy, whose purified flame burned within him more than ever.
It had been decided by common consent that Frederick should first enter the Polytechnic School, and that from there, according to his inclination, he should follow one of those numerous careers opened to him by this encyclopaedical school,—war, the navy, art, letters, or science.
These few words will give an insight, somewhat incomplete, into the ideal felicity in which these three tender and noble creatures lived from the moment that Marie's condition ceased to inspire fear; a felicity altogether new to all, since, even in the happy days which followed Frederick's recovery, the coming of M. Bastien, often forgotten, yet always imminent, would appear on their bright horizon like a threatening cloud.
At this time, on the contrary, as far as the view of Marie and David and Frederick could extend, they beheld an azure sky of such serene splendour that its almost limitless magnificence sometimes dazzled them.
Three weeks had elapsed since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien.
Two o'clock had just sounded, and Frederick, assisted by Marguerite and old André, was filling the vases on the chimneypiece in the library with snowdrops, pale Bengal roses, winter heliotropes, and holly branches, ornamented with their coral berries. In the middle of the mantel, a portrait of Frederick, an admirable likeness done in pastel by David, was placed on an easel; a bright fire burned in the chimney, and on a table were preparations for a simple and rustic collation.
The three accomplices, as they were jestingly called, who presided at the preparations for this little festivity, or, in a word, this surprise party, were walking about on tiptoe and whispering, for fear Madame Bastien might suspect what was taking place. That day, for the first time since her illness, the young woman was to come out of her chamber and remain several hours in the library. Frederick also, and the two old servants, tried to give an air of mirth to this room, and David, without Marie's knowledge, was busy with Frederick's portrait, which she was to see that day for the first time.
During the mysterious coming and going, Marie was alone in her chamber with David.
The young woman clothed in mourning, half recumbent on a sick-chair, with silent happiness contemplated David, seated at a work-table and occupied in correcting one of Frederick's exercises.
Suddenly David, pursuing his reading, said, in a low voice:
"It is incomprehensible!"
"What is incomprehensible, M. David?"
"The really remarkable progress of this child, madame. We have been studying geometry only three weeks, and his aptitude for the exact sciences develops with the same rapidity as his other faculties."
"If I must tell you, M. David, this aptitude in Frederick astonishes me; it seems to me that those studies which require imagination and sentiment are what he would prefer."
"And that, madame, is what surprises and charms me. In this dear child everything obeys the same impulse, everything develops visibly, and nothing is injured. I read to you yesterday his last efforts, which were really eloquent, really beautiful."
"The fact is, M. David, that there is a striking difference between this last production and the best things he wrote before this terrible malady, which, thanks to you will lead to Frederick's regeneration. All that I now dread for him is excess of work."
"And for that reason, I moderate, as much as I can, his eagerness to learn, his impatient and jealous enthusiasm, his passionate longing for the future which he wishes to make illustrious and glorious, and that future will be his."
"Ah, M. David, what joy, what transport for us, if our anticipations are realised!"
It is impossible to reproduce the tenderness Marie expressed in those words, "we—our anticipations," which in themselves revealed the secret projects for happiness, tacitly formed by Marie and David.
The latter continued:
"Believe me, madame, we will see him great in heart and in intellect. There is in him an extraordinary energy, which has developed twofold through this dreaded envy which has so much alarmed us."
"Indeed, on yesterday, M. David, he said to me, cheerfully:
"'Mother, now when I see the castle of Pont Brillant rising in the distance,—that once made me so unhappy,—I throw upon it only a glance of friendly regard and defiance.'"
"And you will see, madame, if, in eight or ten years, the name of Frederick Bastien will not resound more gloriously than that of the young marquis."
"I have the pride to share your hope, M. David. Guided by us, I do not know to what height my son may not attain."
"Then after a short silence Marie added:
"But do you know it all seems like a dream? When I think that it is scarcely two months ago, the evening of your arrival, you were there at that table, looking over Frederick's exercises, and deploring, like me, the veil which lay over the mind of this unhappy child."
"Do you recollect, madame, that gloomy, frozen silence, against which all our efforts proved unavailing?"
"And that might when, crazy with terror, I ran up-stairs to you, to beseech you not to abandon my son, as if you could have abandoned him."
"Say, madame, is there not a sort of charm in these painful memories, now that we are in perfect security and happiness?"
"Yes, there is a sad charm in them, but how much I prefer certain hopes! So, M. David, I will tell you that I have made many plans to-night."
"Let us hear them, madame."
"There is one, very foolish,—really impossible."
"So much the better, they are usually the most charming."
"When our Frederick enters the Polytechnic School, we must be separated from him. Oh, make yourself easy, I will be brave, on one condition."
"And what is that condition?"
"You are going to laugh at it, because it is so childish, perhaps ridiculous. Ah, well, I wish we could dwell near him. And if I must confess all to you, my desire would be to take lodgings opposite the school, if that is possible. Now you are going to laugh at me."
"I do not laugh at this idea at all, madame; I think it is an excellent one, because, thanks to this proximity, you will be able to see our dear boy twice a day, and, besides visits, there will be two long days when we will have him all to ourselves."
"Really," answered Marie, smiling, "you do not think I am too fond a mother?"
"My reply is very short, madame. As it is always necessary to provide for things in the distance, I am going to write to Paris to-day to a reliable person who will watch for a convenient lodging opposite the school and engage it for us."
"How good you are!"
"Very easy kindness, really, to share with you the joy of being near our dear boy."
Marie remained silent a moment; then tears of gratitude filled her eyes and she said, with inexpressible emotion, as she turned toward David:
"How sweet happiness is!"
And her tearful eyes sought and met the eyes of David; for a long time they gazed at each other in silent, divine ecstasy. The door of the chamber opened and Marguerite said to the preceptor, with an air at the same time joyous and mysterious:
"M. David, will you come, if you please?"
"And my son," asked Marie, "where is he?"
"M. Frederick is busy, madame, very busy," replied Marguerite, exchanging a glance of intelligence with the preceptor, who was going out of the door.
"If madame will permit it," said Marguerite, "I will stay with her, in case she may need something."
"Ah, Marguerite, Marguerite," said the young wife, smiling and shaking her head, "they are plotting something here."
"Why do you think that, madame?"
"Oh, I am very discerning! Since this morning, such goings and comings I have heard in the corridor, Frederick is absent during his study hour, and an unusual noise in the library; so you see—"
"I can assure you, madame, that—"
"Good! good! you are taking advantage of my condition," said Marie, smiling. "They all know that I cannot walk about and see myself what is happening out there."
"Oh, madame, what do you think?"
"Well, Marguerite, I think it is a surprise."
"A surprise, madame?"
"Come, my good Marguerite, tell me all about it, I beg you; then I shall be happier sooner, and so I shall be happier a longer time."
"Madame," said Marguerite, heroically, "that would be treason."
At that moment old André opened the door half-way, put his head in, looking very radiant and mysterious, and said to the servant:
"Marguerite, they want to know where is the thing that—that—"
"Ah, my God! he is going to say some foolishness; he never does anything else!" cried Marguerite, running to the door, where she conversed some moments with André in a low tone, after which she came back to her mistress, who said to her, smiling:
"Come, Marguerite, since you are relentless, I am going to see for myself."
"Madame, you think so? You are not able yet to walk after such an illness."
"Do not scold me, I submit; I will not spoil the surprise, but how impatient I am to know!"
The door of the library opened again.
It was David, Frederick, and Doctor Dufour.
Marguerite went away, after having whispered to Frederick:
"M. Frederick, when you hear me cough behind the door, all will be ready."
And the old servant went out.
At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said, cheerfully:
"Oh, now that you are here, my good doctor, I do not doubt any longer that there is a conspiracy."
"A conspiracy?" answered Doctor Dufour, affecting astonishment, while David and Frederick exchanged a smile.
"Yes, yes," replied Marie. "A surprise they are preparing for me. But I warn you that surprises are very dangerous to poor invalids like me, and you had a great deal better tell me beforehand."