CHAPTER LI
THE PORTRAIT.
Having seen Dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was,in truth, but a very slight one, I left him and went home, promising toreturn in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreedthat he must leave Paris that evening, come what might.
It was now close upon two o'clock, and I had been out since betweenthree and four the previous afternoon--not quite twenty-four hours, inpoint of actual time; but a week, a month, a year, in point ofsensation! Had I not seen a man die since that hour yesterday?
Walking homewards through the garish streets in the hot afternoon, allthe strange scenes in which I had just been an actor throngedfantastically upon my memory. The joyous dinner with Franz Mueller; thebusy Temple; the noisy theatre; the long chase through the wet streetsat midnight; the crowded gaming-house; the sweet country drive at earlymorning; the quiet wood, and the dead man lying on his back, with theshadows of the leaves upon his face,--all this, in strange distinctness,came between me and the living tide of the Boulevards.
And now, over-tired and over-excited as I was, I remembered for thefirst time that I had eaten nothing since half-past five that morning.And then I also remembered that I had left Mueller waiting for me underthe archway, without a word of explanation. I promised myself that Iwould write to him as soon as I got home, and in the meantime turned inat the first Cafe to which I came and called for breakfast. But when thebreakfast was brought, I could not eat it. The coffee tasted bitter tome. The meat stuck in my throat. I wanted rest more than food--rest ofbody and mind, and the forgetfulness of sleep! So I paid my bill, and,leaving the untasted meal, went home like a man in a dream.
Madame Bouisse was not in her little lodge as I passed it--neither wasmy key on its accustomed hook. I concluded that she was cleaning myrooms, and so, going upstairs, found my door open. Hearing my own name,however, I paused involuntarily upon the threshold.
"And so, as I was saying," pursued a husky voice, which I knew at onceto be the property of Madame Bouisse, "M'sieur Basil's friend painted iton purpose for him; and I am sure if he was as good a Catholic as theHoly Father himself, and that picture was a true portrait of our BlessedLady, he could not worship it more devoutly. I believe he says hisprayers to it, mam'selle! I often find it in the morning stuck up by thefoot of his bed; and when he comes home of an evening to study his booksand papers, it always stands on a chair just in front of his table, sothat he can see it without turning his head, every time he lifts hiseyes from the writing!"
In the murmured reply that followed, almost inaudible though it was, myear distinguished a tone that set my heart beating.
"Well, I can't tell, of course," said Madame Bouisse, in answer,evidently, to the remark just made; "but if mam'selle will only take thetrouble to look in the glass, and then look at the picture, she will seehow like it is. For my part, I believe it to be that, and nothing else.Do you suppose I don't know the symptoms? _Dame!_ I have eyes, as wellas my neighbors; and you may take my word for it, mam'selle, that pooryoung gentleman is just as much in love as ever a man was inthis world!"
"No more of this, if you please, Madame Bouisse," said Hortense, sodistinctly that I could no longer be in doubt as to the speaker.
I stayed to hear no more; but retreating softly down the first flight ofstairs, came noisily up again, and went straight into myrooms, saying:--
"Madame Bouisse, are you here?"
"Not only Madame Bouisse, but an intruder who implores forgiveness,"said Hortense, with a frank smile, but a heightened color.
I bowed profoundly. No need to tell her she was welcome--my face spokefor me.
"It was Madame Bouisse who lured me in," continued she, "to look at thatpainting."
"_Mais, oui!_ I told mam'selle you had her portrait in yoursitting-room," laughed the fat _concierge,_ leaning on her broom. "I'msure it's quite like enough to be hers, bless her sweet face!"
I felt myself turn scarlet. To hide my confusion I took the picturedown, and carried it to the window.
"You will see it better by this light," I said, pretending to dust itwith my handkerchief. "It is worth a close examination."
Hortense knelt down, and studied it for some moments in silence.
"It must be a copy," she said, presently, more to herself than me--"itmust be a copy."
"It _is_ a copy," I replied. "The original is at the Chateau de SainteAulaire, near Montlhery."
"May I ask how you came by it?"
"A friend of mine, who is an artist, copied it."
"Then it was done especially for you?"
"Just so."
"And, no doubt, you value it?"
"More than anything I possess!"
Then, fearing I had said too much, I added:--
"If I had not admired the original very much, I should not have wishedfor a copy."
She shifted the position of the picture in such a manner that, standingwhere I did, I could no longer see her face.
"Then you have seen the original," she said, in a low tone.
"Undoubtedly--and you?"
"Yes, I have seen it; but not lately."
There was a brief pause.
"Madame Bouisse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle," I said,timidly, "that it might almost be your portrait."
"I can believe it," she answered. "It is very like my mother."
Her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in herhands, and wept silently.
Madame Bouisse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where shewas sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed,believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make aformal 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 theportrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles stillmore 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 thematter?"
"Not now," I replied. "But I have been up all night, and--and I am verytired."
"Was this in your professional capacity?"
"Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than anactive 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 oneto prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go tobed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours."
"I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bouisse is gone; butI 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 itfor you?"
"I would drink poison, if you made it for me!"
"A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room.
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 44
