The Count's Millions [58]
passed. Enveloped in a soft, warm shawl, Madame Leon had again taken possession of her arm- chair, and while she pretended to be reading a prayer-book, she kept a close watch over her dear young lady, as if she were striving to discover her in-most thoughts. Mademoiselle Marguerite did not suspect this affectionate espionage. Besides, what would it have mattered to her? She had rolled a low arm-chair near the bedside, seated herself in it, and her eyes were fixed upon M. de Chalusse. Two or three times she started violently, and once even she said to Madame Leon: "Come--come and see!"
It seemed to her that there was a faint change in the patient's face; but it was only a fancy--she had been deceived by the shadows that played about the room, caused by the capricious flame in the grate. The hours were creeping on, and the housekeeper, wearying at last of her fruitless watch, dropped asleep; her head fell forward on to her breast, her prayer-book slipped from her hands, and finally she began to snore. But Mademoiselle Marguerite did not perceive this, absorbed as she was in thoughts which, by reason of their very profundity, had ceased to be sorrowful. Perhaps she felt she was keeping a last vigil over her happiness, and that with the final breath of this dying man all her girlhood's dreams and all her dearest hopes would take flight for evermore. Undoubtedly her thoughts flew to the man to whom she had promised her life--to Pascal, to the unfortunate fellow whose honor was being stolen from him at that very moment, in a fashionable gaming-house.
About five o'clock the air became so close that she felt a sudden faintness, and opened the window to obtain a breath of fresh air. The noise aroused Madame Leon from her slumbers. She rose, yawned, and rather sullenly declared that she felt very queer, and would certainly fall ill if she did not take some refreshment. It became necessary to summon M. Casimir, who brought her a glass of Madeira and some biscuits. "Now I feel better," she murmured, after her repast. "My excessive sensibility will be the death of me." And so saying, she dropped asleep again.
Mademoiselle Marguerite had meanwhile returned to her seat; but her thoughts gradually became confused, her eyelids grew heavy, and although she struggled, she at last fell asleep in her turn, with her head resting on the count's bed. It was daylight when a strange and terrible shock awoke her. It seemed to her as if an icy hand, some dead person's hand, was gently stroking her head, and tenderly caressing her hair. She at once sprang to her feet. The sick man had regained consciousness; his eyes were open and his right arm was moving. Mademoiselle Marguerite darted to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, and as a servant appeared in answer to the summons, she cried: "Run for the physician who lives near here--quick!--and tell him that the count is conscious."
In an instant, almost, the sick-room was full of servants, but the girl did not perceive it. She had approached M. de Chalusse, and taking his hand, she tenderly asked: "You hear me, do you not, monsieur? Do you understand me?"
His lips moved; but only a hollow, rattling sound, which was absolutely unintelligible, came from his throat. Still, he understood her; as it was easy to see by his gestures--despairing and painful ones, for paralysis had not released its hold on its victim, and it was only with great difficulty that he could slightly move his right arm. He evidently desired something. But what?
They mentioned the different articles in the room--everything indeed that they could think of. But in vain, until the housekeeper suddenly exclaimed: "He wishes to write."
That was, indeed, what he desired. With the hand that was comparatively free, with the hoarse rattle that was his only voice, M. de Chalusse answered, "Yes, yes!" and his eyes even turned to Madame Leon with an expression of joy and gratitude. They raised him on his pillows, and brought him a small writing- desk, with some paper, and a pen that had been dipped
It seemed to her that there was a faint change in the patient's face; but it was only a fancy--she had been deceived by the shadows that played about the room, caused by the capricious flame in the grate. The hours were creeping on, and the housekeeper, wearying at last of her fruitless watch, dropped asleep; her head fell forward on to her breast, her prayer-book slipped from her hands, and finally she began to snore. But Mademoiselle Marguerite did not perceive this, absorbed as she was in thoughts which, by reason of their very profundity, had ceased to be sorrowful. Perhaps she felt she was keeping a last vigil over her happiness, and that with the final breath of this dying man all her girlhood's dreams and all her dearest hopes would take flight for evermore. Undoubtedly her thoughts flew to the man to whom she had promised her life--to Pascal, to the unfortunate fellow whose honor was being stolen from him at that very moment, in a fashionable gaming-house.
About five o'clock the air became so close that she felt a sudden faintness, and opened the window to obtain a breath of fresh air. The noise aroused Madame Leon from her slumbers. She rose, yawned, and rather sullenly declared that she felt very queer, and would certainly fall ill if she did not take some refreshment. It became necessary to summon M. Casimir, who brought her a glass of Madeira and some biscuits. "Now I feel better," she murmured, after her repast. "My excessive sensibility will be the death of me." And so saying, she dropped asleep again.
Mademoiselle Marguerite had meanwhile returned to her seat; but her thoughts gradually became confused, her eyelids grew heavy, and although she struggled, she at last fell asleep in her turn, with her head resting on the count's bed. It was daylight when a strange and terrible shock awoke her. It seemed to her as if an icy hand, some dead person's hand, was gently stroking her head, and tenderly caressing her hair. She at once sprang to her feet. The sick man had regained consciousness; his eyes were open and his right arm was moving. Mademoiselle Marguerite darted to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, and as a servant appeared in answer to the summons, she cried: "Run for the physician who lives near here--quick!--and tell him that the count is conscious."
In an instant, almost, the sick-room was full of servants, but the girl did not perceive it. She had approached M. de Chalusse, and taking his hand, she tenderly asked: "You hear me, do you not, monsieur? Do you understand me?"
His lips moved; but only a hollow, rattling sound, which was absolutely unintelligible, came from his throat. Still, he understood her; as it was easy to see by his gestures--despairing and painful ones, for paralysis had not released its hold on its victim, and it was only with great difficulty that he could slightly move his right arm. He evidently desired something. But what?
They mentioned the different articles in the room--everything indeed that they could think of. But in vain, until the housekeeper suddenly exclaimed: "He wishes to write."
That was, indeed, what he desired. With the hand that was comparatively free, with the hoarse rattle that was his only voice, M. de Chalusse answered, "Yes, yes!" and his eyes even turned to Madame Leon with an expression of joy and gratitude. They raised him on his pillows, and brought him a small writing- desk, with some paper, and a pen that had been dipped