Part 8 (2/2)
CHAPTER VI.
THE COUNT UNSHEATHES HIS CLAWS.
I entered the Count's chamber. What was my surprise to perceive in the half-light of the alcove, the master of Nideck raised upon his elbow and studying me with profound attention. I had so little antic.i.p.ated such a reception, that I paused in surprise.
”Come here, doctor,” he said in a faint but steady voice, reaching out his hand. ”My good Sperver has often spoken to me of you, and I have been anxious to make your acquaintance.”
”Let us hope, monsieur,” I replied, ”that it may be continued under more auspicious circ.u.mstances; a little patience, and all will be well!”
”I fear not,” he replied; ”I feel that the end is drawing near.”
”You are mistaken, monsieur.”
”No! Nature grants us, as a last favor, a presentiment of our approaching end.”
”How often have I seen such presentiments disproved!” I returned, smiling.
He gazed fixedly at me, as sick people are wont to do when they are in doubt as to their true condition. It is a trying moment for the doctor; upon his expression depends the moral strength of the sufferer; if the sick man detect the suspicion of a doubt, all is lost; dissolution begins, the soul prepares to quit the body, and the malady holds full sway. I pa.s.sed firmly through the ordeal; the Count seemed rea.s.sured; he pressed my hand again, and released it, calmer and more confident.
During the pause which followed, Odile and Marie Lagoutte entered the room. They must have followed close behind us. They seated themselves in the two chairs which occupied the embrasure of the window, and Marie resumed her knitting, while Odile spread open a portfolio on her lap and seemed to be studying it.
Soon the Count's glance wandered from my face to that of his daughter, whom he continued to regard fixedly for a long time in silence.
This somewhat oppressive quiet continued, broken only by the jarring of the cas.e.m.e.nts, the monotone of the wind, and the sound of the snow as it swirled and whispered against the panes.
After a half hour of this, the Count suddenly began to speak:
”If my beloved child Odile would but grant my request, if she would only consent to let me hope that one day she would fulfil the desire of my heart, I believe that alone would accomplish my recovery!” I glanced quickly at Odile; she had closed her book, and her eyes were fastened on the floor. I noticed that she had become deathly pale.
”Yes,” continued the sick man, ”I should return to life and happiness!
The prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a new branch of our family, of embracing my grandchildren, and of seeing the perpetuation of our house ensured, would suffice to cure me.”
I felt moved at the mild and gentle pleading of the sufferer. The young woman made no reply. After a minute or two, the Count, who looked entreatingly at her, pursued:
”Odile, you refuse to make your father happy. My G.o.d! I only ask for hope; I fix no time! I do not seek to control your choice! We will go to court, and choose from a hundred n.o.ble suitors. Who would not be proud to win my daughter's hand? You shall be free to decide for yourself.”
He paused. Nothing is more painful to a stranger than these family discussions. There are so many conflicting interests, deep emotions, and sacred feelings involved, that our innate delicacy demands that we hold aloof from such scenes. I was pained, and would gladly have withdrawn, but the circ.u.mstances did not permit of it.
”Father,” said Odile, as if to evade further insistence on the sick man's part, ”you will recover. Heaven will not take you from us who love you so dearly. If you only knew with what loving fervor I pray for you!”
”That is not answering my question,” said the Count drily. ”What objection have you to my proposal? Is it not just and natural? Must I be deprived of the consolations accorded the most wretched? Have I made use of force or trickery?”
”No, father!”
”Then why do you refuse me?”
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