In the Days of My Youth Part 71

"Gladly."

"Adieu, then. I will let you know in time."

And with this, he broke out into a fragment of Beranger, gave a cheerful good-night to Madame Bousse in the hall, and was gone.

And now to enjoy my picture. Now to lock the door, and trim the lamp, and place it up against a pile of books, and sit down before it in silent rapture, like a devotee before the portrait of his patron saint.

Now I can gaze, unreproved, into those eyes, and fancy they are hers.

Now press my lips, unforbidden, upon that exquisite mouth, and believe it warm. Ah, will her eyes ever so give back the look of love in mine?

Will her lips ever suffer mine to come so near? Would she, if she knew the treasure I possessed, be displeased that I so worshipped it?

Hanging over it thus, and suffering my thoughts to stray on at their own will and pleasure, I am startled by the fall of some heavy object in the adjoining chamber. The fall is followed by a stifled cry, and then all is again silent.

To unlock my door and rush to hers--to try vainly to open it--to cry "Hortense! Hortense! what has happened? For Heaven's sake, what has happened?" is the work of but an instant.

The antechamber lay between, and I remembered that she could not hear me. I ran back, knocked against the wall, and repeated:--

"What has happened? Tell me what has happened?"

Again I listened, and in that interval of suspense heard her garments rustle along the ground, then a deep sigh, and then the words:--

"Nothing serious. I have hurt my hand."

"Can you open the door?"

There was another long silence.

"I cannot," she said at length, but more faintly.

"In G.o.d's name, try!"

No answer.

"Shall I get over the balcony?"

I waited another instant, heard nothing, and then, without, further hesitation, opened my own window and climbed the iron rail that separated her balcony from mine, leaving my footsteps trampled in the snow.

I found her sitting on the floor, with her body bent forward and her head resting against the corner of a fallen bookcase. The scattered volumes lay all about. A half-filled portmanteau stood close by on a chair. A travelling-cloak and a pa.s.sport-case lay on the table.

Seeing, yet scarcely noting all this, I flung myself on my knees beside her, and found that one hand and arm lay imprisoned under the bookcase.

She was not insensible, but pain had deprived her of the power of speech. I raised her head tenderly, and supported it against a chair; then lifted the heavy bookcase, and, one by one, removed the volumes that had fallen upon her.

Alas! the white little hand all crushed and bleeding--the powerless arm--the brave mouth striving to be firm!

I took the poor maimed arm, made a temporary sling for it with my cravat, and, taking her up in my arms as if she had been an infant, carried her to the sofa. Then I closed the window; ran back to my own room for hot water; tore up some old handkerchiefs for bandages; and so dressed and bound her wounds--blessing (for the first time in my life) the destiny that had made me a surgeon.

"Are you in much pain?" I asked, when all was done.

"Not now--but I feel very faint,"

I remembered my coffee in the next room, and brought it to her. I lifted her head, and supported her with my arm while she drank it.

"You are much better now," I said, when she had again lain down. "Tell me how it happened."

She smiled languidly.

"It was not my fault," she said, "but Froissart's. Do you remember that Froissart?"

Remember it! I should think so.

"Froissart!" I exclaimed. "Why, what had he to do with it?"

"Only this. I usually kept him on the top of the bookcase that fell down this evening. Just now, while preparing for a journey upon which I must start to-morrow morning, I thought to remove the book to a safer place; and so, instead of standing on a chair, I tried to reach up, and, reaching up, disturbed the balance of the bookcase, and brought it down."

"Could you not have got out of the way when you saw it falling?"

"Yes--but I tried to prevent it, and so was knocked down and imprisoned as you found me."

"Merciful Heaven! it might have killed you."

"That was what flashed across my mind when I saw it coming," she replied, with a faint smile.

"You spoke of a journey," I said presently, turning my face away lest she should read its story too plainly; "but now, of course, you must not move for a few days."

"I must travel to-morrow," she said, with quiet decision.

"Impossible!"

"I have no alternative."

"But think of the danger--the imprudence--the suffering."

"Danger there cannot be," she replied, with a touch of impatience in her voice. "Imprudent it may possibly be; but of that I have no time to think. And as for the suffering, that concerns myself alone. There are mental pains harder to bear than the pains of the body, and the consciousness of a duty unfulfilled is one of the keenest of them. You urge in vain; I must go. And now, since it is time you bade me good-night, let me thank you for your ready help and say good-bye."

"But may I do no more for you?"

"Nothing--unless you will have the goodness to bid Madame Bousse to come up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me."

"At what hour do you start?"

"At eight."

"May I not go with you to the station, and see that you get a comfortable seat?"

"Many thanks," she replied, coldly; "but I do not go by rail, and my seat in the diligence is already taken."

"You will want some one to see to your luggage--to carry your cloaks."

"Madame Bousse has promised to go with me to the Messageries."