swept sadly through by soul, with faint impressions of the old ballads of my childhood—of those pious songs with which the kind nurses of the Black Forest rock to peaceful sleep our infant sorrows.
At my approach Odile rose.
“You are very welcome, monsieur le docteur,” she said with touching kindness and simplicity; then, pointing with her finger to a recess where lay the count, she added, “There is my father.”
I bowed respectfully and without answering, for I felt deeply affected, and drew near to my patient.
Sperver, standing at the head of the bed, held up the lamp with one hand, holding his far cap in the other. Odile stood at my left hand. The light, softened by the subdued light of the globe of ground crystal, fell softly on the face of the count.
At once I was struck with a strangeness in the physiognomy of the Count of Nideck, and in spite of all the admiration which his lovely daughter had at once obtained from me, my first conclusion was, “What an old wolf!”
And such he seemed to be indeed. A grey head, covered with short, close hair, strangely full behind the ears, and drawn out in the face to a portentous length, the narrowness of his forehead up to its summit widening over the eyebrows, which were shaggy and met, pointing downwards over the bridge of the nose, imperfectly shading with their sable outline the cold and inexpressive eyes; the short, rough beard, irregularly spread over the angular and bony outline of the mouth—every feature of this man’s dreadful countenance made me shudder, and strange notions crossed my mind about the mysterious affinities between man and the lower creation.
But I resisted my first impressions and took the sick man’s hand. It was dry and wiry, yet small and strong; I found the pulse quick, feverish, and denoting great irritability.
What was I to do?
I stood considering; on the one side stood the young lady, anxiously trying to read a little hope in my face; on the other Sperver, equally anxious and watching my every movement. A painful constraint lay, therefore, upon me, yet I saw that there was nothing definite that could be attempted yet.
I dropped the arm and listened to the breathing. From time to time a convulsive sob heaved the sick man’s heart, after which followed a succession of quick, short respirations. A kind of nightmare was evidently weighing him down—epilepsy, perhaps, or tetanus. But what could be the cause or origin?
I turned round full of painful thoughts.
“Is there any hope, sir?” asked the young countess.
“Yesterday’s crisis is drawing to its close,” I answered; “we must see if we can prevent its recurrence.”
“Is there any possibility of it, sir?”
I was about to answer in general medical terms, not daring to venture any positive assertions, when the distant sound of the bell at the gate fell upon our ears.
“Visitors,” said Sperver.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Go and see who it is,” said Odile, whose brow was for a minute shaded with anxiety. “How can one be hospitable to strangers at such a time? It is hardly possible!”
But the door opened, and a rosy face, with golden hair, appeared in the shadow, and said in a whisper—
“It is the Baron of Zimmer-Bluderich, with a servant, and he asks for shelter in the Nideck. He has lost his way among the mountains.”
“Very well, Gretchen,” answered the young countess, kindly; “go and tell the steward to attend to the Baron de Zimmer. Inform him that the count is very ill, and that this alone prevents him from doing the honours as he would wish. Wake up some of our people to wait on him, and let everything be done properly.”
Nothing could exceed the sweet and noble simplicity of the young châtelaine in giving her orders. If an air of distinction seems hereditary in some families it is surely because the exercise of the duties conferred by the possession of wealth has a natural tendency to ennoble the whole character and bearing.
These thoughts passed through my mind whilst admiring the grace and gentleness in every movement of Odile of Nideck, and that clearness and purity of outline which is only found marked in the features of the higher aristocracy, and I could recall nothing to my recollection equal to this ideal beauty.
“Go now, Gretchen,” said the young countess, “and make haste.”
The attendant went out, and I stood a few seconds under the influence of the charm of her manner.
Odile turned round, and addressing me, “You see, sir,” said she with a sad smile, “one may not indulge in grief without a pause; we must divide ourselves between our affection within and the world without.”
“True, madam,” I replied; “souls of the highest order are for the common property and advantage of the unhappy—the lost wayfarer, the sick, the hungry poor—each has his claim for a share, for God has made them like the stars of heaven to give light and pleasure to all.”
The deep-fringed eyelids veiled the blue eyes for a moment, while Sperver pressed my hand.
Presently she pursued—
“Ah, if you could but restore my father’s health!”
“As I have had the pleasure to inform you, madam, the crisis is past; the return must be anticipated, if possible.”
“Do you hope that it may?”
“With God’s help, madam, it is not impossible; I will think carefully over it.”
Odile, much moved, came with me to the door. Sperver and I crossed the ante-room, where a few servants were waiting for the orders of their mistress. We had just entered the corridor when Gideon, who was walking first, turned quickly round, and, placing both his hands on my shoulders, said—
“Come, Fritz; I am to be depended upon for keeping a secret; what is your opinion?”
“I think there is no cause of apprehension for to-night.”
“I know that—so you told the countess—but how about to-morrow?”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes; don’t turn round. I suppose you cannot prevent the return of the complaint; do you think, Fritz, he will die of it?”
“It is possible, but hardly probable.”
“Well done!” cried the good man, springing from the ground with joy; “if you don’t think so, that means that you are sure.”
And taking my arm, he drew me into the gallery. We had just reached it when the Baron of Zimmer-Bluderich and his groom appeared there also, marshalled by Sébalt with a lighted torch in his hand. They were on their way to their chambers, and those two figures, with their cloaks flung over their shoulders, their loose Hungarian boots up to the knees, the body closely girt with long dark-green laced and frogged tunics, and the bear-skin cap closely and warmly covering the head, were very picturesque objects by the flickering light of the pine-torch.
“There,” whispered
