The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

Hedwige, in all its artless simplicity, mingled in my mind with the face of Odile.

      Suddenly Gideon stopped, and, raising my eyes, I saw that we were standing before the count’s door.

      “Come in, Fritz,” he said, “and I will give the dogs a feed. When the master’s away the servants neglect their duty; I will come for you by-and-by.”

      I entered, more desirous of seeing the young lady than the count her father; I was blaming myself for my remissness, but there is no controlling one’s interest and affections. I was much surprised to see in the half-light of the alcove the reclining figure of the count leaning upon his elbow and observing me with profound attention. I was so little prepared for this examination that I stood rather dispossessed of self-command.

      “Come nearer, monsieur le docteur,” he said in a weak but firm voice, holding out his hand. “My faithful Sperver has often mentioned your name to me; and I was anxious to make your acquaintance.”

      “Let us hope, my lord, that it will be continued under more favourable circumstances. A little patience, and we shall avert this attack.”

      “I think not,” he replied. “I feel my time drawing near.”

      “You are mistaken, my lord.”

      “No; Nature grants us, as a last favour, to have a presentiment of our approaching end.”

      “How often I have seen such presentiments falsified!” I said with a smile.

      He fixed his eyes searchingly upon me, as is usual with patients expressing anxiety about their prospects. It is a difficult moment for the doctor. The moral strength of his patient depends upon the expression of the firmness of his convictions; the eye of the sufferer penetrates into the innermost soul of his consciousness; if he believes that he can discover any hint or shade of doubt, his fate is sealed; depression sets in; the secret springs that maintain the elasticity of the spirit give way, and the disorder has it all its own way.

      I stood my examination firmly and successfully, and the count seemed to regain confidence; he again pressed my hand, and resigned himself calmly and confidently to my treatment.

      Not until then did I perceive Mademoiselle Odile and an old lady, no doubt her governess, seated by her bedside at the other end of the alcove.

      They silently saluted me, and suddenly the picture in the library reappeared before me.

      “It is she,” I said, “Hugh’s first wife. There is the fair and noble brow, there are the long lashes, and that sad, unfathomable smile. Oh, how much past telling lies in a woman’s smile! Seek not, then, for unmixed joy and pleasure! Her smile serves but to veil untold sorrows, anxiety for the future, even heartrending cares. The maid, the wife, the mother, smile and smile, even when the heart is breaking and the abyss is opening. O woman! this is thy part in the mortal struggle of human life!”

      I was pursuing these reflections when the lord of Nideck began to speak—

      “If my dear child Odile would but consult my wishes I believe my health would return.”

      I looked towards the young countess; she fixed her eyes on the floor, and seemed to be praying silently.

      “Yes,” the sick man went on, “I should then return to life; the prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a young family, and of pressing grandchildren to my heart, and beholding the succession to my house, would revive me.”

      At the mild and gentle tone of entreaty in which this was said I felt deeply moved with compassion; but the young lady made no reply.

      In a minute or two the count, who kept his watchful eyes upon her, went on—

      “Odile, you refuse to make your father a happy man? I only ask for a faint hope. I fix no time. I won’t limit your choice. We will go to court. There you will have a hundred opportunities of marrying with distinction and with honour. Who would not be proud to win my daughter’s hand? You shall be perfectly free to decide for yourself.”

      He paused.

      There is nothing more painful to a stranger than these family quarrels. There are such contending interests, so many private motives, at work, that mere modesty should make it our duty to place ourselves out of hearing of such discussions. I felt pained, and would gladly have retired. But the circumstances of the case forbade this.

      “My dear father,” said Odile, as if to evade any further discussion, “you will get better. Heaven will not take you from those who love you. If you but knew the fervour with which I pray for you!”

      “That is not an answer,” said the count drily. “What objection can you make to my proposal? Is it not fair and natural? Am I to be deprived of the consolations vouchsafed to the neediest and most wretched? You know I have acted towards you openly and frankly.”

      “You have, my father.”

      “Then give me your reason for your refusal.”

      “My resolution is formed—I have consecrated myself to God.”

      So much firmness in so frail a being made me tremble. She stood like the sculptured Madonna in Hugh’s tower, calm and immovable, however weak in appearance.

      The eyes of the count kindled with an ominous fire. I tried to make the young countess understand by signs how gladly I would hear her give the least hope, and calm his rising passion; but she seemed not to see me.

      “So,” he cried in a smothered tone, as if he were strangling—“so you will look on and see your father perish? A word would restore him to life, and you refuse to speak that one word?”

      “Life is not in the hand of man, for it is God’s gift; my word can be of no avail.”

      “Those are nothing but pious maxims,” answered the count scornfully, “to release you from your plain duty. But has not God said, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother?’”

      “I do honour you,” she replied gently. “But it is my duty not to marry.”

      I could hear the grinding and gnashing of the man’s teeth. He lay apparently calm, but presently turned abruptly and cried—

      “Leave me; the sight of you is offensive to me!”

      And addressing me as I stood by agitated with conflicting feelings—

      “Doctor,” he cried with a savage grin, “have you any violent malignant poison about you to give me—something that will destroy me like a thunderbolt? It would be a mercy to poison me like a dog, rather than let me suffer as I am doing.”

      His features writhed convulsively, his colour became livid.

      Odile rose and advanced to the door.

      “Stay!” he howled furiously—“stay till I have cursed you!”

      So far I had stood by without speaking, not venturing to interfere between Father and Daughter, but now I could refrain no longer.

      “Monseigneur,” I cried, “for the sake of your own health, for the sake of mere justice and fairness, do calm yourself; your life is at stake.”

      “What matters my life? what matters the future? Is there a knife here to put an end to me? Let me die!”

      His excitement rose every minute. I seemed to dread lest in some frenzied moment he should spring from the bed and destroy his child’s life. But she, calm though deadly pale, knelt at the door, which was standing open, and outside I could see Sperver, whose features betrayed the deepest anxiety. He drew near without noise, and bending towards Odile—

      “Oh, mademoiselle!” he whispered—“mademoiselle, the count is such a worthy, good man. If you would but just say only, ‘Perhaps—by-and-by—we will see.’”

      She made no reply, and did not change her attitude.

      At this moment I persuaded the Lord of Nideck to take a few drops of Laudanum; he sank back with