CHAPTER XLIV.
A PRESCRIPTION.
A week went by--a fortnight went by--and still Hortense prolonged hermysterious absence. Where could she be gone? Was she ill? Had anyaccident befallen her on the road? What if the wounded hand had failedto heal? What if inflammation had set in, and she were lying, even now,sick and helpless, among strangers? These terrors came back upon me atevery moment, and drove me almost to despair. In vain I interrogatedMadame Bouisse. The good-natured _concierge_ knew no more than myself,and the little she had to tell only increased my uneasiness.
Hortense, it appeared, had taken two such journeys before, and had, onboth occasions, started apparently at a moment's notice, and with everyindication of anxiety and haste. From the first she returned after aninterval of more than three weeks; from the second after about four orfive days. Each absence had been followed by a long season ofdespondency and lassitude, during which, said the _concierge_,Mademoiselle scarcely spoke, or ate, or slept, but, silent and pale as aghost, sat up later than ever with her books and papers. As for thislast journey, all she knew about it was that Mam'selle had had herpassport regulated for foreign parts the afternoon of the day beforeshe started.
"But can you not remember in what direction the diligence was going?" Iasked, again and again.
"No, M'sieur--not in the least,"
"Nor the name of the town to which her place was taken?"
"I don't know that I ever heard it, M'sieur."
"But at least you must have seen the address on the portmanteau?"
"Not I, M'sieur--I never thought of looking at it."
"Did she say nothing to account for the suddenness of her departure?"
"Nothing at all."
"Nor about her return either. Madame Bouisse? Just think amoment--surely she said something about when you might expect herback again?"
"Nothing, M'sieur, except, by the way--"
"Except what?"
"_Dame_! only this--as she was just going to step into the diligence,she turned back and shook hands with me--Mam'selle Hortense, proud asshe is, is never above shaking hands with me, I can tell you, M'sieur."
"No, no--I can well believe it. Pray, go on!"
"Well, M'sieur," she shakes hands with me, and she says, "Thank you,good Madame Bouisse, for all your kindness to me.... Hear that, M'sieur,'good Madame Bouisse,'--the dear child!"
"And then--?"
"Bah! how impatient you are! Well, then, she says (after thanking me,you observe)--'I have paid you my rent, Madame Bouisse, up to the end ofthe present month, and if, when the time has expired, I have neitherwritten nor returned, consider me still as your tenant. If, however, Ido not come back at all, I will let you know further respecting the careof my books and other property."
If she did not come back at all! Oh, Heaven! I had never contemplatedsuch a possibility. I left Madame Bouisse without another word, andgoing up to my own rooms, flung myself upon my bed, as if I werestupefied.
All that night, all the next day, those words haunted me. They seemed tohave burned themselves into my brain in letters of fire. Dreaming, Iwoke up with them upon my lips; reading, they started out upon me fromthe page. "If I never come back at all!"
At last, when the fifth day came round--the fifth day of the third weekof her absence--I became so languid and desponding that I lost all powerof application.
Even Dr. Cheron noticed it, and calling me in the afternoon to hisprivate room, said:--
"Basil Arbuthnot, you look ill. Are you working too hard?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"Humph! Are you out much at night?"
"Out, sir?"
"Yes--don't echo my words--do you go into society: frequent balls,theatres, and so forth?"
"I have not done so, sir, for several months past."
"What is it, then? Do you read late?"
"Really, sir, I hardly know--up to about one or two o'clock; on theaverage, I believe."
"Let me feel your pulse."
I put out my wrist, and he held it for some seconds, looking keenly atme all the time.
"Got anything on your mind?" he asked, after he had dropped it again."Want money, eh?"
"No, sir, thank you."
"Home-sick?"
"Not in the least."
"Hah! want amusement. Can't work perpetually--not reasonable to supposeit. There, _mon garcon_," (taking a folded paper from his pocket-book)"there's a prescription for you. Make the most of it."
It was a stall-ticket for the opera. Too restless and unhappy to rejectany chance of relief, however temporary, I accepted it, and went.
I had not been to a theatre since that night with Josephine, nor to theItalian Opera since I used to go with Madame de Marignan. As I went inlistlessly and took my place, the lights, the noise, the multitude offaces, confused and dazzled me. Presently the curtain rose, and thepiece began. The opera was _I Capuletti_. I do not remember who thesingers were, I am not sure that I ever knew. To me they were Romeo andJuliet, and I was a dweller in Verona. The story, the music, thescenery, took a vivid hold upon my imagination. From the moment thecurtain rose, I saw only the stage, and, except that I in some sortestablished a dim comparison between Romeo's sorrows and my owndisquietude of mind, I seemed to lose all recollection of time andplace, and almost of my own identity.
It seemed quite natural that that ill-fated pair of lovers should gothrough life, love, wed, and die singing. And why not? Are they not airynothings, "born of romance, cradled in poetry, thinking other thoughts,and doing other deeds than ours?" As they live in poetry, so may theynot with perfect fitness speak in song?
I went home in a dream, with the melodies ringing in my ears and thestory lying heavy at my heart. I passed upstairs in the dark, went overto the window, and saw, oh joy! the light--the dear, familiar, welcome,blessed light, streaming forth, as of old, from Hortense'schamber window!
To thank Heaven that she was safe was my first impulse--to step out onthe balcony, and watch the light as though it were a part of herself,was the second. I had not been there many moments when it was obscuredby a passing shadow. The window opened and she came out.
"Good-evening," she said, in her calm, clear voice. "I heard you outhere, and thought you might like to know that, thanks to your treatmentin the first instance, and such care as I have been able since to giveit, my hand is once more in working order."
"You are kind to come out and tell me so," I said. "I had no hope ofseeing you to-night. How long is it since you arrived?"
"About two hours," she replied, carelessly.
"And you have been nearly three weeks away!"
"Have I?" said she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, and looking updreamily into the night. "I did not count the days."
"That proves you passed them happily," I said; not without some secretbitterness.
"Happily!" she echoed. "What is happiness?"
"A word that we all translate differently," I replied.
"And your own reading of it?" she said, interrogatively.
I hesitated.
"Do you inquire what is my need, individually?" I asked, "or do you wantmy general definition?"
"The latter."
"I think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; thesecond, success."
She sighed.
"I accept your definition," she said, "and hope that you may realize itto the full in your own experience. For myself, I have toiled andfailed--sought, and found not. Judge, then, how I came to leave the daysuncounted."
The sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, theabstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness.
"Failure is often the forerunner of success," I replied, for want,perhaps, of something better to say.
She shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where,every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between theflying clouds.
"It is not the first time," she murmured, "nor will it be the last--andyet they say th
at God is merciful."
She had forgotten my presence. These words were not spoken to me, but inanswer to her own thoughts. I said nothing, but watched her upturnedface. It was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she wentaway; and sadder--oh, how much sadder!
She roused herself presently, and turning to me, said:--"I beg yourpardon. I am very absent; but I am greatly fatigued. I have beentravelling incessantly for two days and nights."
"Then I will wish you good-night at once," I said.
"Good-night," she replied; and went back into her room.
The next morning Dr. Cheron smiled one of his cold smiles, and said:--
"You look better to-day, my young friend. I knew how it was with you--noworse malady, after all, than _ennui_. I shall take care to repeat themedicine from time to time."
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 38
