Part 2 (2/2)

On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of faded dignity:--”Young gentleman,” he said, ”_you_ I thank for your politeness.”

He seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenly livid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against the wall.

My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather than led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessary restoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the color came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily.

”An attack of the nerves,” he said, shaking his head feebly. ”An attack of the nerves, Messieurs.”

My father looked doubtful.

”Are you often taken in this way?” he asked, with unusual gentleness.

”_Mais oui_, Monsieur,” admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly. ”He does often arrive to me. Not--not that he is dangerous. Ah, bah! _Pas du tout_!”

”Humph!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed my father, more doubtfully than before. ”Let me feel your pulse.”

The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of the operator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me.

”Do you sleep well?” asked my father, holding the fragile little wrist between his finger and thumb.

”Pa.s.sably, Monsieur.”

”Dream much?”

”Ye--es, I dream.”

”Are you subject to giddiness?”

The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy.

”_C'est vrai_” he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, ”_J'ai des vertiges_.”

My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription.

”There, sir,” said he, ”get that preparation made up, and when you next feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-gla.s.sful. I should recommend you to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find further directions on the other side.”

The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; but was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair.

”Monsieur,” said he, with another of his profound bows, ”I thank you infinitely. You make me too much attention; but I am grateful. And, Monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--she thanks you also. _Elle m'aime, Monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvre pet.i.te_! What shall she do if I die?”

Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anything theatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet with tears, which he made no effort to conceal.

My father shuffled restlessly in his chair.

”No obligation--no obligation at all,” he muttered, with a touch of impatience in his voice. ”And now, what about those tickets? I suppose, Basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?”

”That I am, sir,” said I, joyfully. ”I should like it above all things!”

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