said Justine, “he committed what would have been in any case a folly, and was in him a madness. He formed a connection with an actress, and eventually married her, and his family discarded him. He was mad, very mad, for he knew only enough of medicine to obtain a subordinate place with a surgeon, and they had need of all their romance to make their realities tolerable. Madame, however, was faithful, and Marie was born to them. Soon after this event monsieur died, his last moments being made bitter by the reflection that he was leaving his wife and child the prey of poverty, and Madame supported herself and child by the sale of fancy needlework, and giving lessons in music. She had offers of engagements at the theatres, but she refused them, and fought on single-handed against her destiny. She had a hard struggle with the world, poor lady, but she held her ground until about six months since, when she was put hors de combat, the doctors say, with consumption, and is following her husband at the quick step. Mademoiselle Marie is eighteen, and is a good girl, oh! a brave girl. She has stepped into the gap left by her prostrate mother, and monsieur le propriétaire is very forbearing; but I fear the poor child is nearly beaten in the double struggle with her heart and body. For you must know, monsieur, that Marie has a little affair. She is the fiancée of a sous officier, who is now struggling with death before Sebastopol. He has been honourably mentioned and decorated for his bravery, but since a long time Marie has only heard that he is in hospital with Crimean fever, and the poor child’s anxiety is touching when she speaks of him.”
Perhaps memory brought Justine a whiff of one of her own “little affairs,” out of a graveyard of the past, for a big tear at this stage of her narrative, went rolling bodily into the uplifted wine-glass, and before she could recover herself, the little “cabbage” came running down stairs in a state of great terror.
“What is the matter, mon chou? Is madame worse?”
“O, grandmère, she is in agonies! and mademoiselle wishes to have a doctor.”
We offered our services, and followed the “little cabbage” up stairs, and in the few moments that we waited for the acceptance of our services, we had time to take a survey of the apartment. It was naked in the extreme; but the few articles of furniture were arranged with so much taste and neatness, as almost to give it an air of comfort; and a bouquet of common flowers which Justine had that morning brought from the market of the Madeleine was placed in a vase in a window. The partition between the two rooms was very thin, and we could hear the feeble voice of the sick lady.
“Great God! is everything gone, my child, that you should sacrifice your beautiful hair?”
“It is no sacrifice, my dear mother, and it will be stronger than ever before you will be able to walk out with me.”
As we entered, Marie looked at us as if striving to recall our features, and then whispered to her mother, that a doctor was in attendance. We passed over to the bedside of the sick lady, and saw that Marie was right. Her hair would be stronger than ever, before her mother would be able to walk out with her.
The poor lady seemed exhausted by recent exertion; but in a short time she rallied, and murmured,—“I feel it is too late, my darling; may heaven repay your devotion!”
Marie looked at us inquiringly. We took the sick woman’s hand, and felt that the pulse beat feebly. Her mind began to wander in a light and unconnected manner, and her eyes were growing dull, and dallying with vacuity. We saw that the patient was suffering from the reaction of her late excitement; but we were conscious that a few hours more would hand her over to the grave, and we could only give her a little stimulant. Marie’s eyes intuitively read our verdict, and we saw the big tears rapidly chasing each other down her cheeks, while she gently smoothed the sufferer’s pillow, and whispered words of hope, which it cost her agonies to affect.
After a little while the poor lady seemed a little to revive, and Marie became almost importunate with her tender offices; but she was interrupted by the entrance of the “little cabbage,” who stole quietly into the room, and whispered a few words to Marie.
“Tell monsieur,” said the latter, “that we cannot see him now. Will he call again?”
“Grandmère has told him that madame is very ill, but he says that his business is urgent,” replied the cabbage.
The conversation was carried on in a whisper, but madame caught the purport. Her eyes brightened with a feverish brilliance, and she said in a voice, strong for her—
“What is that, my child? Let monsieur enter—who knows?” The last two words were uttered in a lower tone than the rest, as though they were the result of some thought flashing across her mind.
We stood passive. For although we knew the irruption of an urgent visitor was a matter of serious apprehension, we were aware that the duration of the poor lady’s existence could at worst be affected by but a few hours, and we met the glance of Marie with a silent assent. The “little cabbage” disappeared, and in a few moments returned, ushering in a tall man, far gone in years, whose demeanour stamped him as belonging to the higher ranks of society. He was clothed in deep mourning, and his face, which must have been handsome in his youth, was expressive of considerable haughtiness, overlaid and softened by the traces of painful suffering. We offered to withdraw, but Marie wished us to remain, and the stranger did not object. As he moved across the room to the bedside of madame, we whispered her perilous condition, and Marie looked up from her mother’s side imploringly.
“Mama is very ill, monsieur,” said she.
“I am grieved to hear it,” rejoined the stranger, in a low tremulous voice, not unmusical.
At the sound of his voice, madame, who had fallen into an attitude of rest, made an effort to raise herself upon her arms, and looked stedfastly into his face as if seeking to recall something from