Part 84 (1/2)
Madame Bousse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed, believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a formal declaration.
”Alas! mademoiselle,” I said, hesitatingly, ”I little thought...”
She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said, kindly--
”It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of the portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still more nearly. I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs.
It is not often that they rise to the surface.”
I raised her hand reverently to my lips.
”But you are looking worn and ill yourself,” she added. ”Is anything the matter?”
”Not now,” I replied. ”But I have been up all night, and--and I am very tired.”
”Was this in your professional capacity?”
”Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than an active agent--and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene.”
She sighed, and shook her head.
”You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student,”
she said, kindly. ”Instead of prescribing for others, you need some one to prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go to bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours.”
”I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bousse is gone; but I must be up and out again at six.”
”Nay, that is in three hours.”
”I cannot help it. It is my duty.”
”Then I have no more to say. Would you drink some lemonade, if I made it for you?”
”I would drink poison, if you made it for me!”
”A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!” laughed she, and left the room.
CHAPTER LII.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
It was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merry month of June--as I took my customary way to Dr. Cheron's house in the Faubourg St. Germain. I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train the evening previous, and, refreshed by a good night's rest, had started somewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in the Luxembourg Gardens before beginning my day's work.
There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed and acacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among the boughs, set me longing for a holiday. I thought of Saxonholme, and the sweet English woodlands round about. I thought how pleasant it would be to go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise my father in his quiet study. What if I asked Dr. Cheron to spare me for a fortnight?
Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arriving presently at the well-known Porte Cochere in the Rue de Mont Parna.s.se, rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seat at my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual.
”If you please, Monsieur,” said the solemn servant, making his appearance at the door, ”Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence in his private room.”
I went. Dr. Cheron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, bordered broadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yards from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in he looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.