Monsieur Offenloch, hand the doctor a chair; move about a little, do! There you stand with your mouth wide open, just like a fish. Ah, sir, these Germans!”
And the good man, jumping up as if moved by a spring, came to take off my cloak.
“Permit me, sir.”
“You are very kind, my dear lady.”
“Give it to me. What terrible weather! Ah, monsieur, what a dreadful country this is!”
“So monseigneur is neither better nor worse,” said Sperver, shaking the snow off his cap; “we are not too late, then. Ho, Kasper! Kasper!”
A little man, who had one shoulder higher than the other, and his face spotted with innumerable freckles, came out of the chimney corner.
“Here I am!”
“Very good; now get ready for this gentleman the bedroom at the end of the long gallery—Hugh’s room; you know which I mean.”
“Yes, Sperver, in a minute.”
“And you will take with you, as you go, the doctor’s knapsack. Knapwurst will give it you. As for supper—”
“Never you mind. That is my business.”
“Very well, then. I will depend upon you.”
The little man went out, and Gideon, after taking off his cape, left us to go and inform the young countess of my arrival.
I was rather overpowered with the attentions of Marie Lagoutte.
“Give up that place of yours, Sébalt,” she cried to the kennel-keeper. “You are roasted enough by this time. Sit near the fire, monsieur le docteur; you must have very cold feet. Stretch out your legs; that’s the way.”
Then, holding out her snuff-box to me—
“Do you take snuff?”
“No, dear madam, with many thanks.”
“That is a pity,” she answered, filling both nostrils. “It is the most delightful habit.”
She slipped her snuff-box back into her apron pocket, and went on—
“You are come not a bit too soon. Monseigneur had his second attack yesterday; it was an awful attack, was it not, Monsieur Offenloch?”
“Furious indeed,” answered the head butler gravely.
“It is not surprising,” she continued, “when a man takes no nourishment. Fancy, monsieur, that for two days he has never tasted broth!”
“Nor a glass of wine,” added the major-domo, crossing his hands over his portly, well-lined person.
As it seemed expected of me, I expressed my surprise, on which Tobias Offenloch came to sit at my right hand, and said—
“Doctor, take my advice; order him a bottle a day of Marcobrunner.”
“And,” chimed in Marie Lagoutte, “a wing of a chicken at every meal. The poor man is frightfully thin.”
“We have got Marcobrunner sixty years in bottle,” added the major-domo, “for it is a mistake of Madame Offenloch’s to suppose that the French drank it all. And you had better order, while you are about it, now and then, a good bottle of Johannisberg. That is the best wine to set a man up again.”
“Time was,” remarked the master of the hounds in a dismal voice—“time was when monseigneur hunted twice a week; then he was well; when he left off hunting, then he fell ill.”
“Of course it could not be otherwise,” observed Marie Lagoutte. “The open air gives you an appetite. The doctor had better order him to hunt three times a week to make up for lost time.”
“Two would be enough,” replied the man of dogs with the same gravity; “quite enough. The hounds must have their rest. Dogs have just as much right to rest as we have.”
There was a few moments’ silence, during which I could hear the wind beating against the window-panes, and rush, sighing and wailing, through the loopholes into the towers.
Sébalt sat with legs across, and his elbow resting on his knee, gazing into the fire with unspeakable dolefulness. Marie Lagoutte, after having refreshed herself with a fresh pinch, was settling her snuff into shape in its box, while I sat thinking on the strange habit people indulge in of pressing their advice upon those who don’t want it.
At this moment the major-domo rose.
“Will you have a glass of wine, doctor?” said he, leaning over the back of my arm-chair.
“Thank you, but I never drink before seeing a patient.”
“What! not even one little glass?”
“Not the smallest glass you could offer me.”
He opened his eyes wide and looked with astonishment at his wife.
“The doctor is right,” she said. “I am quite of his opinion. I prefer to drink with my meat, and to take a glass of cognac afterwards. That is what the ladies do in France. Cognac is more fashionable than kirschwasser!”
Marie Lagoutte had hardly finished with her dissertation when Sperver opened the door quietly and beckoned me to follow him.
I bowed to the “honourable company,” and as I was entering the passage I could hear that lady saying to her husband—
“That is a nice young man. He would have made a good-looking soldier.”
Sperver looked uneasy, but said nothing. I was full of my own thoughts.
A few steps under the darkling vaults of Nideck completely effaced from my memory the queer figures of Tobias and Marie Lagoutte, poor harmless creatures, existing like bats under the mighty wing of the vulture.
Soon Gideon brought me into a sumptuous apartment hung with violet-coloured velvet, relieved with gold. A bronze lamp stood in a corner, its brightness toned down by a globe of ground crystal; thick carpets, soft as the turf on the hills, made our steps noiseless. It seemed a fit abode for silence and meditation.
On entering Sperver lifted the heavy draperies which fell around an ogee window. I observed him straining his eyes to discover something in the darkened distance; he was trying to make out whether the witch still lay there crouching down upon the snow in the midst of the plain; but he could see nothing, for there was deep darkness over all.
But I had gone on a few steps, and came in sight, by the faint rays of the lamp, of a pale, delicate figure seated in a Gothic chair not far from the sick man. It was Odile of Nideck. Her long black silk dress, her gentle expression of calm self-devotion and complete resignation, the ideal angel-like cast of her sweet features, recalled to one’s mind those mysterious creations of the pencil in the Middle Ages when painting was pursued as a true art, but which modern imitators have found themselves obliged to give up in despair, while at the same time they never can forget them.
I cannot
