He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden. Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite to the Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom happens. Besides, there is no such thing as teasing the poor man. I’ve been in the house for six months, and I’ve never heard him say anything but: ‘yes’; ‘no’; ‘do this’; ‘very well’; ‘retire.’ You would think these are the only words he knows. Ask M. Casimir if I’m not right.”
“Our guv’nor isn’t very gay, that’s a fact,” responded the valet.
The footman was listening with a serious air, as if greatly interested in the character of the people whom he was to serve. “And mademoiselle,” he asked, “what does she say to such an existence?”
“Bless me! during the six months she has been here, she has never once complained.”
“If she is bored,” added M. Casimir, “she conceals it bravely.”
“Naturally enough,” sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical gesture; “each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her too much money for her to complain.”
By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older servants exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had discovered the secret skeleton hidden in every house. “What! what!” he exclaimed, on fire with curiosity; “is there really anything in that? To tell the truth, I was inclined to doubt it.”
His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or rather all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang vigorously.
“There he comes!” exclaimed the concierge; “but he’s in too much of a hurry; hell have to wait awhile.”
He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room, crying, “Help! help!”
The servants sprang to their feet.
“Make haste!” continued the driver. “I was bringing a gentleman here—you must know him. He’s outside, in my vehicle——”
Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the driver’s incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap, speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face downward, and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped under the front seat.
“Poor devil!” muttered M. Casimir, “he must have had a stroke of apoplexy.” The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a cry of horror. “Ah, my God! it is the count!”
Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle. This circumstance restored M. Casimir’s composure; or, at least, some portion of it. “You must drive into the courtyard,” he said, addressing the cabman. “M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please.” And then, turning to another servant, he added:
“And you must make haste and fetch a physician—no matter who. Run to the nearest doctor, and don’t return until you bring one with you.”
The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the reins and skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.
Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now remained to remove the count from the vehicle, and this was a difficult task, on account of the singular position of his body; still, they succeeded at last, by opening both doors of the cab, the three strongest men uniting in their efforts. Then they placed him in a large arm-chair, carried him to his own room, and speedily had him undressed and in bed.
He had so far given no sign of life; and as he lay there with his head weighing heavily on the pillow, you might have thought that all was over. His most intimate friend would scarcely have recognized him. His features were swollen and discolored; his eyes were closed, and a dark purple circle, looking almost like a terrible bruise, extended round them. A spasm had twisted his lips, and his distorted mouth, which was drawn on one side and hung half open imparted a most sinister expression to his face. In spite of every precaution, he had been wounded as he was removed from the cab. His forehead had been grazed by a piece of iron, and a tiny stream of blood was trickling down upon his face. However, he still breathed; and by listening attentively, one could distinguish a faint rattling in his throat.
The servants, who had been so garrulous a few moments before, were silent now. They lingered in the room, exchanging glances of mute consternation. Their faces were pale and sad, and there were tears in the eyes of some of them. What was passing in their minds? Perhaps they were overcome by that unconquerable fear which sudden and unexpected death always provokes. Perhaps they unconsciously loved this master, whose bread they ate. Perhaps their grief was only selfishness, and they were merely wondering what would become of them, where they should find another situation, and if it would prove a good one. Not knowing what to do, they talked together in subdued voices, each suggesting some remedy he had heard spoken of for such cases. The more sensible among them were proposing to go and inform mademoiselle or Madame Leon, whose rooms were on the floor above, when the rustling of a skirt against the door suddenly made them turn. The person whom they called “mademoiselle” was standing on the threshold.
Mademoiselle Marguerite was a beautiful young girl, about twenty years of age. She was a brunette of medium height, with big gloomy eyes shaded by thick eyebrows. Heavy masses of jet-black hair wreathed her lofty but rather sad and thoughtful forehead. There was something peculiar in her face—an expression of concentrated suffering, and a sort of proud resignation, mingled with timidity.
“What has happened?” she asked, gently. “What is the cause of all the noise I have heard? I have rung three times and the bell was not answered.”
No one ventured to reply, and in her surprise she cast a hasty glance around. From where she stood, she could not see the bed stationed in an alcove; but she instantly noted the dejected attitude of the servants, the clothing scattered about the floor, and the disorder that pervaded this magnificent but severely furnished chamber, which was only lighted by the lamp which M. Bourigeau, the concierge, carried. A sudden dread seized her; she shuddered, and in a faltering voice she added: “Why are you all here? Speak, tell me what has happened.”
M. Casimir stepped forward. “A great misfortune, mademoiselle, a terrible misfortune. The count——”
And he paused, frightened by what he was about to say.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite had understood him. She clasped both hands to her heart, as if she had received a fatal wound, and uttered the single word: “Lost!”
The next moment she turned as pale as death, her head drooped, her eyes closed, and she staggered as if about to fall. Two maids sprang forward to support her, but she gently repulsed them, murmuring, “Thanks! thanks! I am strong now.”
She was, in fact, sufficiently strong to conquer her weakness. She summoned all her resolution, and, paler than a statue, with set teeth and dry, glittering eyes, she approached the alcove. She stood there for a moment perfectly motionless, murmuring a few unintelligible words; but at last, crushed by her sorrow, she sank upon her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the counterpane and wept.
Deeply moved by the sight of this despair,
