CHAPTER XVI.
If one must be ill at all, the Hôtel-Dieu is a pleasant place to be ill in. It stands back from the street; a stretch of cool green turf, shaded by manifold trees and sweetened by innumerable flowers, lying between it and the dusty thoroughfare. Looking between the bars of the high-grated gate, one may catch a glimpse of the interior, where light-footed sisters of mercy glide from room to room, ministering to the sick who are so fortunate as to come under their gentle care. Late one afternoon, perhaps a week from the day when Robert Feuardent had been brought to the hospital senseless and wounded nigh unto death, his friend and physician rang at the gate. From the dark interior came two white-coifed nuns passing down the wide steps and along the flagged path to admit him.
"How is he this evening?" he asked anxiously, as the elder sister, taking a key from her girdle, unlocked the gate.
"He has been worrying himself almost into a fever, calling for you; but his head is quite clear, I think."
"Philip, how long you have been!" cried the sufferer impatiently, as Rondelet entered the small room where he lay, the one vivid thing in the white and spotless cell.
"I am sorry, Robert, I could not come sooner; but you are so much better, you really do not need me," Rondelet said gently.
"I need you more than ever, for I have something to say to you."
The physician shook his head and touched his patient's wrist; but Robert would not be denied.
"Philip, dear Philip," he cried, "let me talk to you to-night! I must tell you something that weighs upon me."
Another repetition! Save that it was a man's face lying flushed and pain-racked among the pillows, a man's voice that pleaded with him, Philip felt that he might have been reacting the scene of weeks ago, when Therese had told him the story of her wrongs and grief. He was so startled by the vivid recollection that for the moment he said nothing, and only took his friend's hot hand in both of his.
"Philip, if I die—and I know that I may die—promise me that you will tell Margaret Ruysdale the secret I am going to confide to you now."
"I promise."
Rondelet felt a foreknowledge of what was coming; he was as sure as that he lived that he was to hear more of the story of Therese than she had ever told him. The last link in the chain was to be supplied; he was to learn what bond there was between Robert and Therese that had made the man so merciful and forbearing, the woman so full of pitiless hatred.
"You remember the day when those bloodhounds were here, wearying me with their questions?" the patient continued.
"Yes."
"I told them that I did not know who struck me. It was a lie; you knew it was a lie when I spoke it. I saw that you knew as well as if you had seen her, who it was that struck the blow."
Philip bowed his head in assent.
"Yes, it was she, Therese," Robert went on eagerly; "and because she is a woman and heedless, and because the bloodhounds are keen of scent, they will track her, and it will be known that I fell by her hand. You must save her; and when she is safe, you must go to Margaret and tell her all. She knows half the story; it is not fair that she should not hear the rest. No, do not wait; tell her to-night. Therese is the cause of all this misery, and yet I must protect her; for—Philip, come closer—I swore to my father on his death-bed that I would shield her always—because—he—my father, was her father, and because, before God, she is my sister,"
"Your sister?"
"Yes, my sister. Her mother—you have seen her—is half Spanish, half negro; she belonged to my father."
"Therese your sister!" repeated Philip. "I thought she was—" he hesitated.
"My mistress? Ay, and so does the rest of the world; it may be that Margaret thinks this thing of me."
"Now I begin to understand it all," said Philip. "You tried to separate her from Thoron?"
"Yes," interrupted Robert; "how could I see her openly disgraced and brought to shame? She was gently bred, reared like a lady, in ignorance of what she was. If she had been my own sister she could not have been more tenderly nurtured. I strove to induce her to leave him. She would not listen to me, and appealed to him; in the quarrel that ensued, he forced me to fight. You know the rest well enough."
"Yes," said Philip, speaking slowly and gravely, "yes, I know it all; and I know that with his dying breath Fernand Thoron called upon that woman to bear witness that the fault was his alone, and that you were not to blame."
"He said that? Swear to me that you are telling the truth!"
"I have never lied in my life."
"Philip!" The name died on his lips, and the hand that clasped Rondelet's grew cold. Robert had fainted. He came to his senses only to fall into a deep sleep; and Philip, as he watched him, was convinced that the corner was turned, and that the morning would see his patient out of danger.
Before he slept that night Rondelet had a duty to perform, a message to deliver. He stopped at the Ruysdales on his way from the hospital to Jackson Square. Margaret was expecting him. The evening was very warm, and the young girl was sitting on the veranda with her father. Sara Harden and her faithful cavalier, Bouton de Rose, arrived just as Philip came up the steps.
"Ah, Philippe le bel, it is you!" cried Mrs. Harden. "Never were you more welcome than at this moment,—what news of Feuardent?"
Margaret's eyes had already asked the question.
"He is much better to-night; I think I can almost pronounce him out of danger."
"There 's no killing a fellow like that," said Bouton de Rose. "He is a Hercules. What a physique, what muscles! A gladiator!"
"Yes; there 's a great deal of him to kill," said Mrs. Harden, dryly.
When she found that Robert was in a fair way to recover, her womanly compassion was forgotten, and her old prejudice against Philip's rival came back.
"What a tragic year this has been!" she continued; "enough of melodrama to fill a five-act play. I think it very vulgar and third-rate, all this blood and murder and detectives. One is obliged to know so much about it all, too, in this country. They manage these things better in France, do they not, Comte?"
"Ah! madame is always so amiable in her recollections of my country."
"Because it 's my country too, and Mr. Rondelet's also. Paris belongs to the world, not only to the French. Is it not so Philip? You are at heart more of a Frenchman than an American."
"I certainly was once, Mrs. Harden. To-day I cannot say. I feel very differently about my own country."
"Tiens! This is a change of base. Why, six months ago I heard you declare,—I remember your very words,—'I would give my life for this country, because it would be my duty to do so; I would die for France because I love her.'"
"That was the expression of a momentary enthusiasm," said the Count. "Besides, what could be more natural? M. Rondelet is French in name, in blood,—is it not so?—largely even by education. Allez! it is most natural, he is more than half a Frenchman. I have always claimed you as a compatriot, mon cher."
"Yes," said Mrs. Harden with a sigh,—she was unaccountably depressed this evening,—"Philip is changed. He once had time to read with me, to walk with me, to sing with me, to be, in short, a little companionable; now he has taken up his profession, and my husband tells me he is the hardest worked doctor in town. What 's the use of working? I hate work; but the provoking thing is that you working people are always the most amusing, while idlers like myself are very boresome to me. It 's a hard old world."
Margaret laughed as she had not laughed for a week, and patted her friend's soft hand, saying,—
"You work too hard in trying to amuse yourself; there is no harder work than that in the world."
"Now, Margaret, no philosophy, please. 'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings' is all very well; but from a chit like you I can't endure it. Come, Comte, I must get back to my old Gaffer Harden; it is ten o'clock and after. Good-night all. Go to bed early, Madge; you are losing your color from keeping too late hours. Philip, you never come to the house now; I want to see you soon. General, is it too late for you to walk part of the way with us? I want to consult you about my"—she hesitated a moment—"about my—my new picture-gallery. You know I think of building an extension this summer."
With a smile as innocent as that of a child she looked into the old General's face and carried him off triumphantly, a willing slave to her charms. The wily enchantress discoursed for an hour with that innocent man about her imaginary picture-gallery, to the astonishment of good Darius Harden, who was too diplomatic a soul and too well-disciplined a husband to betray any surprise at the startling plans which his wife was now disclosing for the first time.
Meanwhile Philip was left alone with Margaret after the long, hard day's work, which jarred upon his artistic, sensitive nature more than even she, who knew him so well, could guess. His passionate love of beautiful things in nature and in art made each ugly and diseased being that came under his care a positive pain to him; yet he had endured this for her sake, that he might be more worthy of her. Had he not earned the right to speak, to tell her what he had done for her, to sue for that love which was the only reward life held for him? He was very weary; he longed to speak; and yet one thought kept him silent,—his promise to Feuardent. He had sworn to tell her that very night the story of which she knew but the outside facts.
She seemed conscious of the struggle in his breast, for she suddenly turned to him and bade him tell her what was troubling him. He was still silent.
"I am sure it is something about Mr. Feuardent that you have to say."
"Yes, my child, you are right; you are always right. I have something to tell you from Robert,—a message, a story, I hardly know which."
"Let it be a story, you tell them so well."
And so he spoke, and told the story as he was gifted to do, with a concentrated earnestness and a repressed eloquence that held his listener breathless and expectant. It is a great gift that of the raconteur. In Italy it is considered a talent of the highest order, and is cultivated as carefully as a tenor voice. In that favored land the speech of the improvvisatore flows in rhymed numbers; but the greatest master of that rare art never had a more entranced listener than had Philip Rondelet as he told the story of Therese, of Fernand, and of Robert to Margaret. We all enjoy doing the things that we do well; and forgetting everything but his auditor and his theme, Philip soon broke from the measured sentences with which he began the recital, and with an almost Oriental grace and richness of speech painted for Margaret the various scenes of the story in which he had participated or which had been described to him.
Fascinated by the narrative, magnetized by the speaker, Margaret sat looking into Philip's face with a rapt attention which might well have deceived a more shrewd observer than himself. Was it wonderful the lover believed that the look she gave him as she laid in his hand the breast-knot she had worn that night was love-laden?
He caught her hand in his own and raised it, trembling all the while at his own temerity, to his lips; and Margaret did not frown, but gently drew it from him as a step sounded upon the walk and her father joined them.
The General had come just five minutes too soon! There was nothing to do but to take leave, and with a light step Philip left the house and made his way to Jackson Square. His tiny apartment, "on the first story down the chimney," as he was wont to call it, was cool and sweet with the spray of the little fountain. The windows were wide open, and a single flower spread its scented heart to the beauty of the night. But once in the year this aged cactus blossomed, and on this white night, the happiest in all Philip Rondelet's life, the cereus had bloomed for him. The delicate waxen petals slowly unfolded, revealing the deep heart which seemed to glow with a hidden flame. The perfume, unlike that of any other flower, floated about him like an incense. As he kept his vigil with the wondrous blossom, it seemed to him that the eyes of his soul were looking into a heart as fresh and fragrant. He believed that he could see the light of love burning for him, faint and tender as the mystic radiance of the cereus. Margaret loved him. For the first time he believed that his heart's desire was granted. She loved him. Why else should she have smiled so happily in his face? Why had she talked with him in the old, unreserved way that had been hers ere the cloud had come between them? Why had she, with that inimitable gesture of grace and shyness, taken the flowers from her breast and laid them in his hand, letting her own linger while he kissed the little palm till it was pink with blushes? Margaret loved him; and happy in that belief after the long doubt and fear, dismissed now forever, he fell asleep.
With the morrow came his daily tasks and the remembrance of that other promise he had made Robert, to find Therese and save her from the creatures of the law. Where should he begin the search? It seemed an almost hopeless one. Her mother and uncle denied all knowledge of her. She had vanished, they said, leaving no trace behind. He could not communicate with the police authorities without strengthening the suspicions already entertained by them. Hero was his only confidant, and all that day the two men searched for the desperate woman, each in his own way. Philip failed to find Margaret at the studio when he called. He was grieved at this, but he felt confident that he should see her that evening. He would then tell her of the wealth of love in his heart,—hers, all hers,—more than ever woman was blessed with before.
And Margaret, unconscious of the hope and joy which she had given him, thought only of the story he had told her the night before and of the man who was its hero. For the first time in many days she went cheerfully about her house hold tasks, ordered her father's dinner, and superintended the house-work; and when Philip came, trembling with hope and love, to see her, she was in the kitchen making broth for Robert Feuardent. The sympathetic servant-maid who opened the door had compassion on his eager face, and instead of giving the curt "too much engaged to receive any one," told him smilingly that "Miss Ruysdale had gone out early with the General." Margaret was full of kindliness that day, and the little children who came begging at her gate went away full-handed and rejoicing. She had a smile, one of her rare smiles, for every creature who crossed her path on that sunny spring morning; and when she at last went to her work in the studio, her voice vied with that of the bird in the magnolia-tree in melody and joy.
Just before sundown Margaret left the house, carrying on her arm a basket containing the can of broth she had watched that day with an interest which she had never before felt regarding any culinary operation. She took the road the bearers had chosen on the morning when Robert Feuardent had been carried to the Hôtel-Dieu, the quickest and quietest route, one which Philip Rondelet had traversed many a day on his way to and from the work he had undertaken for love of her. She walked bravely and swiftly for the first half of the way; but as she drew near the hospital her pace slackened and her heart beat fast with excitement. The building was now in sight. With a heightened color and a perfectly oblivious expression she passed the gate and turned down the next street, as if she had no more interest in the place than the first-comer. Near at hand there was a small square, with a few shade-trees and some wooden benches. Here she sat down, and with the point of her parasol drew an intricate design in the soft earth of the path. When it was carefully finished she quickly obliterated it with her foot, and then repeated the drawing, enlarging the outline a little. It was still unsatisfactory, and this time the lines seemed shorter and less vigorous. A yellow dog of an ungenteel appearance now joined her, and after vainly trying to decipher the hieroglyphics Margaret was tracing, turned his attention to the basket, from which proceeded a savory odor. Recalled to herself by this impertinent and unwarrantable curiosity on the part of the yellow dog, Miss Ruysdale suddenly rose, and with a firm step and severe expression of countenance again approached the Hôtel-Dieu. This time she got as far as the gate, and with a trembling hand rang the bell. The door of the hall flew open and the guardian of the gate descended, alone this time, the visitor being of the female sex.
"I want to see Sister Gabrielle," Margaret said, in a voice that would not be quite firm; "I have brought something for one of the patients."
"Enter, my child," said the sister kindly, "and I will find Sister Gabrielle for you."
In the long, severe waiting-room, with its religious engravings and library of the lives of the saints, Margaret Ruysdale, sculptor, the composed and serious young woman, sat trembling and blushing as any other foolish girl might have done. When the grave gray-eyed Sister Gabrielle swept into her presence, stately and imposing in her serge frock as she had been in her state robes when she presided over one of the great houses of the Faubourg St. Germain, Margaret's courage gave out entirely, and she faltered: "I came to ask about—Dr. Rondelet has often spoken to me of you. I—I am Miss Ruysdale. I brought some broth, and I want to know how Mr. Feuardent is."
"Mademoiselle Risdelle? Ah, yes." The dignity had melted from Sister Gabrielle's face; there was only a tender kindliness now. "Ah, I know you vare well, mademoiselle. I have to thank you on account of many, many gracious gifts at my patients,"—she spoke English with apparent effort. "But you spik French, don't it? Enfin, c'est mieux;" and relapsing into her mother tongue, she made Margaret heartily welcome to the hospital, and gave her a full and satisfactory account of the patient's condition.
"He is asleep now," said the sister as Margaret rose to go. "Would you not like to look into the room and to see how comfortable he is?"
Margaret bowed. She could not speak, but followed the sister down the wide cool passage to an open door.
"Ah, the soup! I had forgotten it," whispered Sister Gabrielle innocently. "Wait here till I bring you the basket and the can."
She was gone, and Margaret was left alone on the threshold of the small airy room. It was now nearly dark; but the fading light from the window showed the narrow white bed. Margaret could dimly discern a face among the pillows. The regular breathing showed that the patient was asleep. The girl shivered with a new and acute pain, and yielding to a desire whose force she had no strength to combat, she stole noiselessly across the threshold, and by slow degrees reached the bedside. She stood looking down at the pale handsome face lying there in the gray twilight. So quietly had she moved that the watcher, drowsing in the easy-chair in the shadow of the door, was not aware of her presence till with a low sigh and a sudden raising of her hands to her heart Margaret bent her fair proud head and touched the sleeper's forehead with her lips.
Robert Feuardent had been kissed for a second time as he slept; but the light caress of the maiden lips which laid their first kiss upon his brow only soothed him to a deeper, happier slumber. Like a rosy shadow, Margaret stole from that dim room and flew down the corridor and out into the streets, her basket, the nun—all else forgotten in that blissful tumult of pain and pleasure which she now knew to be Love,—
"For we knew thee mother of life,
But knew thee not mother of death!"
When Sister Gabrielle returned with the basket, she found her visitor fled, and instead of the trembling girl she had left on the threshold, the tall figure of Philip Rondelet, who had sat watching his friend's slumber that afternoon from the arm-chair in the shadow of the doorway.
"You are going, Doctor?"
"Yes, he is doing well. There is no change to be made in the treatment. I shall not be back again to-night. Good-by."
The Doctor's voice sounded a little strangely, the sister thought, and his pale face and deep eyes wore an expression she had never seen in them before. "He is overworked," she said to herself. "There is more of the spirit than the flesh about that man, or he could not endure what he does."
The Doctor's face haunted the nun that night, and she added a prayer for the peace of his soul to the long list of requirements which in a perfect, childlike faith she sent up to the ever-gracious and accessible Mother of God.