The throbbing in my head was gone, and a great clearness had come with a great fear.I stood, I know not how long, listening to the groans that came through the wall, for Mrs.Temple was in agony.At intervals I heard Helene's voice, and then the groans seemed to stop.Ten times Iwent to the bedroom door, and as many times drew away again, my heart leaping within me at the peril which she faced.If I had had the right, I believe I would have carried her away by force.
But I had not the right.I sat down heavily, by the table, to think and it might have been a cry of agony sharper than the rest that reminded me once more of the tragedy of the poor lady in torture.My eye fell upon the table, and there, as though prepared for what I was to do, lay pen and paper, ink and sand.My hand shook as Itook the quill and tried to compose a letter to my cousin.
I scarcely saw the words which I put on the sheet, and Imay be forgiven for the unwisdom of that which I wrote.
``The Baron de Carondelet will send an officer for you to-night so that you may escape observation in custody.His Excellency knew of your hiding-place, but is inclined to be lenient, will allow you to-morrow to go to the Rue Bourbon, and will without doubt permit you to leave the province.Your mother is ill, and Madame la Vicomtesse and myself are with her.
``DAVID.''
In the state I was it took me a long time to compose this much, and I had barely finished it when there was a knock at the outer door.There was Andre.He had the immobility of face which sometimes goes with the mulatto, and always with the trained servant, as he informed me that Monsieur le Medecin was not at home, but that he had left word.There was an epidemic, Monsieur, so Andre feared.
I gave him the note and his directions, and ten minutes after he had gone I would have given much to have called him back.How about Antoinette, alone at Les Iles? Why had I not thought of her? We had told her nothing that morning, Madame la Vicomtesse and I, after our conference with Nick.For the girl had shut herself in her room, and Madame had thought it best not to disturb her at such a stage.But would she not be alarmed when Helene failed to return that night? Had circumstances been different, I myself would have ridden to Les Iles, but no inducement now could make me desert the post I had chosen.After many years I dislike to recall to memory that long afternoon which I spent, helpless, in the Rue Bourbon.Now I was on my feet, pacing restlessly the short breadth of the room, trying to shut out from my mind the horrors of which my ears gave testimony.Again, in the intervals of quiet, I sat with my elbows on the table and my head in my hands, striving to allay the throbbing in my temples.
Pains came and went, and at times I felt like a fagot flung into the fire,--I, who had never known a sick day.At times my throat pained me, an odd symptom in a warm climate.Troubled as I was in mind and body, the thought of Helene's quiet heroism upheld me through it all.More than once I had my hand raised to knock at the bedroom door and ask if I could help, but I dared not; at length, the sun having done its worst and spent its fury, Ibegan to hear steps along the banquette and voices almost at my elbow beyond the little window.At every noise Ipeered out, hoping for the doctor.But he did not come.
And then, as I fell back into the fauteuil, there was borne on my consciousness a sound I had heard before.It was the music of the fiddler, it was a tune I knew, and the voices of the children were singing the refrain:--``Ne sait quand reviendra, Ne sait quand reviendra.''
I rose, opened the door, and slipped out of it, and I must have made a strange, hatless figure as I came upon the fiddler and his children from across the street.
``Stop that noise,'' I cried in French, angered beyond all reason at the thought of music at such a time.``Idiots, there is yellow fever there.''
The little man stopped with his bow raised; for a moment they all stared at me, transfixed.It was a little elf in blue indienne who jumped first and ran down the street, crying the news in a shrill voice, the others following, the fiddler gazing stupidly after them.Suddenly he scrambled up, moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed into the house, and slammed the door in my face.I returned with slow steps to shut myself in the darkened room again, and I recall feeling something of triumph over the consternation I had caused.No sounds came from the bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death save for an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall.I was tired.
All at once the bedroom door opened softly, and Helene was standing there, looking at me.At first I saw her dimly, as in a vision, then clearly.I leaped to my feet and went and stood beside her.
``The doctor has not come,'' I said.``Where does he live? I will go for him.''
She shook her head.
``He can do no good.Lindy has procured all the remedies, such as they are.They can only serve to alleviate,''
she answered.``She cannot withstand this, poor lady.''
There were tears on Helene's lashes.``Her sufferings have been frightful--frightful.''
``Cannot I help?'' I said thickly.``Cannot I do something?''
She shook her head.She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat, and suddenly I felt her palm, cool and firm, upon my forehead.It rested there but an instant.
``You ought not to be here,'' she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness and concern.``You ought not to be here.Will you not go--if I ask it?''
``I cannot,'' I said; ``you know I cannot if you stay.''
She did not answer that.Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor universe.It was she who turned away.
``Have you written him?'' she asked in a low voice.
``Yes,'' I answered.
``She would not have known him,'' said Helene; ``after all these years of waiting she would not have known him.
Her punishment has been great.''
A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone, silently, as she had come.
** ** ***
