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The Conspirators, a novel by Alexandre Dumas |
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Chapter 39. A Prime Minister's Memory |
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_ CHAPTER XXXIX. A PRIME MINISTER'S MEMORY When Bathilde reopened her eyes, she found herself in Mademoiselle Emilie's room. Mirza was lying on the end of the bed; the two sisters were one at each side of her pillow, and Buvat, overcome by grief, was sitting in a corner, his head bent, and his hands resting on his knees. At first all her thoughts were confused, and her sensation was one of bodily pain; she raised her hand to her head; the wound was behind the temple. A doctor, who had been called in, had arranged the first dressing, and left orders that he was to be sent for if fever declared itself. Astonished to find herself--on waking from a sleep which had appeared to her heavy and painful--in bed in a strange room, the young girl turned an inquiring glance on each person present, but Emilie and Athenais shunned her eyes, and Buvat heaved a mournful sigh. Mirza alone stretched out her little head for a caress. Unluckily for the coaxing little creature, Bathilde began to recover her memory; the veil which was drawn before the late events rose little by little, and soon she began to connect the broken threads which might guide her in the past. She recalled the return of Buvat, what he had told her of the conspiracy, the danger which would result to D'Harmental from the revelation he had made. Then she remembered her hope of being in time to save him, the rapidity with which she had crossed the street and mounted the staircase; lastly, her entry into Raoul's room returned to her memory, and once more she found herself before the corpse of Roquefinette. "And he," she cried, "what has become of him?" No one answered, for neither of the three persons who were in the room knew what reply to give; only Buvat, choking with tears, rose, and went toward the door. Bathilde understood the grief and remorse expressed in that mute withdrawal; she stopped him by a look, and extending her arms toward him-- "My father," said she, "do you no longer love your poor Bathilde?" "I no longer love you, my darling child!" cried Buvat, falling on his knees, and kissing her hand, "I love you no longer! My God! it will be you who will not love me now, and you will be right, for I am worthless; I ought to have known that that young man loved you, and ought to have risked all, suffered all, rather than--. But you told me nothing, you had no confidence in me, and I--with the best intentions in the world--made nothing but mistakes; oh, unlucky, unhappy, that I am, you will never forgive me, and then--how shall I live?" "Father," cried Bathilde, "for Heaven's sake try and find out what has happened." "Well, my child, well, I will discover; will not you forgive me if I bring you good news? If the news is bad, you will hate me even more; that will but be just, but you will not die, Bathilde?" "Go, go," said Bathilde, throwing her arms round his neck, and giving him a kiss in which fifteen years of gratitude struggled with one day of pain; "go, my existence is in the hands of God, He only can decide whether I shall live or die." Buvat understood nothing of all this but the kiss, and--having inquired of Madame Denis how the chevalier had been dressed--he set out on his quest. It was no easy matter for a detective so simple as Buvat to trace Raoul's progress; he had learned from a neighbor that he had been seen to spring upon a gray horse which had remained some half hour fastened to the shutter, and that he had turned round the Rue Gros Chenet. A grocer, who lived at the corner of the Rue des Jeuneurs, remembered having seen a cavalier, whose person and horse agreed perfectly with the description given by Buvat, pass by at full gallop; and, lastly, a fruit woman, who kept a little shop at the corner of the Boulevards, swore positively that she had seen the man, and that he had disappeared by the Porte Saint Denis; but from this point all the information was vague, unsatisfactory, and uncertain, so that, after two hours of useless inquiry, Buvat returned to Madame Denis's house without any more definite information to give Bathilde than that, wherever D'Harmental might be gone, he had passed along the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Buvat found his ward much agitated; during his absence she had grown rapidly worse, and the crisis foreseen by the doctor was fast approaching. Bathilde's eyes flashed; her skin seemed to glow; her words were short and firm. Madame Denis had just sent for the doctor. The poor woman was not without her own anxieties; for some time she had suspected that the Abbe Brigaud was mixed up in some plot, and what she had just learned, that D'Harmental was not a poor student but a rich colonel, confirmed her conjectures, since it had been Brigaud who had introduced him to her. This similarity of position had not a little contributed to soften her heart--always kind--toward Bathilde. She listened, then, with eagerness to the little information which Buvat had been able to collect for the sufferer, and, as it was far from being sufficiently positive to calm the patient, she promised, if she heard anything herself, to report it directly. In the meantime the doctor arrived. Great as was his command over himself, it was easy to see that he thought Bathilde in some danger--he bled her abundantly, ordered refreshing drinks, and advised that some one should watch at the bedside. Emilie and Athenais, who, their little absurdities excepted, were excellent girls, declared directly that that was their business, and that they would pass the night with Bathilde alternately; Emilie, as eldest, claimed the first watch, which was given her without contest. As to Buvat, since he could not remain in the room, they asked him to return home; a thing to which he would not consent till Bathilde herself had begged it. The bleeding had somewhat calmed her, and she seemed to feel better; Madame Denis had left the room; Mademoiselle Athenais also had retired; Monsieur Boniface, after returning from the Morgue, where he had been to pay a visit to the body of Roquefinette, had mounted to his own room, and Emilie watched by the fire-place, and read a little book which she took from her pocket. She shortly heard a movement in the bed, and ran toward it; then, after an instant's silence, during which she heard the opening and shutting of two or three doors, and before she had time to say--"That is not the voice of Monsieur Raoul, it is the Abbe Brigaud," Bathilde had fallen back on her pillow. An instant afterward Madame Denis half opened the door, and in a trembling voice called Emilie, who kissed Bathilde and went out. Suddenly Bathilde was aroused; the abbe was in the room next to hers, and she thought that she heard him pronounce Raoul's name. She now remembered having several times seen the abbe at D'Harmental's rooms; she knew that he was one of the most intimate friends of Madame de Maine; she thought, then, that the abbe must bring news of him. Her first idea was to slip from the bed, put on a dressing-gown, and go and ask what had happened; but she considered that if the news was bad they would not tell it, and that it would be better to overhear the conversation, which appeared animated. Consequently she pressed her ear to the panel, and listened as if her whole life had been spent in cultivating that single sense. Brigaud was relating to Madame Denis what had happened. Valef had made his way to the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and given warning to Madame de Maine of the failure of the expedition. Madame de Maine had immediately freed the conspirators from their oaths, advised Malezieux and Brigaud to save themselves, and retired to the Arsenal. Brigaud came therefore to bid adieu to Madame Denis; he was going to attempt to reach Spain in the disguise of a peddler. In the midst of his recital, interrupted by the exclamation of poor Madame Denis and of Mesdemoiselles Athenais and Emilie, the abbe thought that he heard a cry in the next room, just at the time when he was relating D'Harmental's catastrophe; but as no one had paid any attention to the cry, and as he was not aware of Bathilde's being there, he had attached no importance to this noise, regarding the nature of which he might easily have been mistaken; moreover, Boniface, summoned in his turn, had entered at the moment, and, as the abbe had a particular fancy for Boniface, his entrance had naturally turned Brigaud's thoughts into a different channel. Still, this was not the time for long leave-takings; Brigaud desired that daylight should find him as far as possible from Paris. He took leave of the Denis family, and set out with Boniface, who declared that he would accompany friend Brigaud as far as the barrier. As they opened the staircase-door they heard the voice of the portress, who appeared to be opposing the passage of some one; they descended to discover the cause of the discussion, and found Bathilde, with streaming hair, naked feet, and wrapped in a long white robe, standing on the staircase, and endeavoring to go out in spite of the efforts of the portress. The poor girl had heard everything; the fever had changed into delirium; she would join Raoul; she would see him again; she would die with him. The three women took her in their arms. For a minute she struggled against them, murmuring incoherent words; her cheeks were flushed with fever, while her limbs trembled, and her teeth chattered; but soon her strength failed her, her head sank back, and, calling on the name of Raoul, she fainted a second time. They sent once more for the doctor. What he had feared was now no longer doubtful--brain fever had declared itself. At this moment some one knocked; it was Buvat, whom Brigaud and Boniface had found wandering to and fro before the house like a ghost; and who, not able to keep up any longer, had come to beg a seat in some corner, he did not care where, so long as from time to time he had news of Bathilde. The poor family were too sad themselves not to feel for the grief of others. Madame signed to Buvat to seat himself in a corner, and retired into her own room with Athenais, leaving Emilie once more with the sufferer. About daybreak Boniface returned: he had gone with Brigaud as far as the Barriere d'Enfer, where the abbe had left him, hoping--thanks to his good steed, and to his disguise--to reach the Spanish frontier. Bathilde's delirium continued. All night she talked of Raoul; she often mentioned Buvat's name, and always accused him of having killed her lover. Buvat heard it, and, without daring to defend himself, to reply, or even to groan, had silently burst into tears, and, pondering on what means existed of repairing the evil he had caused, he at last arrived at a desperate resolution. He approached the bed, kissed the feverish hand of Bathilde, who did not recognize him, and went out. Buvat had, in fact, determined on a bold course. It was to go himself to Dubois, tell him everything, and ask, as his recompense--not the payment of his arrears--not advancement at the library--but pardon for D'Harmental. It was the least that could be accorded to the man whom the regent himself had called the savior of France. Buvat did not doubt that he should soon return bearing good news, and that it would restore Bathilde to health. Consequently Buvat went home to arrange his disordered dress, which bore the marks of the events of the day and the emotions of the night; and, moreover, he did not dare to present himself at the minister's house so early, for fear of disturbing him. His toilet finished, and as it was still only nine o'clock, he returned for a few minutes to Bathilde's room--it was that which the young girl had left the day before. Buvat sat down in the chair which she had quitted, touched the articles which she liked to touch, kissed the feet of the crucifix, which she kissed each night--one would have thought him a lover following the steps of his mistress. Ten o'clock struck; it was the hour at which Buvat had often before repaired to the Palais Royal. The fear of being importunate gave place to the hope of being received as he had always been. He took his hat and cane, and called at Madame Denis's to ask how Bathilde had been during his absence; he found that she had never ceased to call for Raoul. The doctor had bled her for the third time. He raised his eyes to heaven, heaved a profound sigh, and set out for the Palais Royal. The moment was unlucky. Dubois, who had been constantly on his feet for four or five days, suffered horribly from the malady which was to cause his death in a few months; moreover, he was beyond measure annoyed that only D'Harmental had been taken, and had just given orders to Leblanc and D'Argenson to press on the trial with all possible speed, when his valet-de-chambre, who was accustomed to see the worthy writer arrive every morning, announced M. Buvat. "And who the devil is M. Buvat?" "It is I, monseigneur," said the poor fellow, venturing to slip between the valet and the door, and bowing his honest head before the prime minister. "Well, who are you?" asked Dubois, as if he had never seen him before. "What, monseigneur!" exclaimed the astonished Buvat; "do you not recognize me? I come to congratulate you on the discovery of the conspiracy." "I get congratulations enough of that kind--thanks for yours, M. Buvat," said Dubois, quietly. "But, monseigneur, I come also to ask a favor." "A favor! and on what grounds?" "Monseigneur," stammered Buvat, "but--monseigneur--do you not remember that you promised me a--a recompense?" "A recompense to you, you double idiot." "What! monseigneur," continued poor Buvat, getting more and more frightened, "do you not recollect that you told me, here, in this very room, that I had my fortune at my fingers' ends?" "And now," said Dubois, "I tell you that you have your life in your legs, for unless you decamp pretty quick--" "But, monseigneur--" "Ah! you reason with me, scoundrel," shouted Dubois, raising himself with one hand on the arm of his chair, and the other on his archbishop's crook, "wait, then, you shall see--" Buvat had seen quite enough; at the threatening gesture of the premier he understood what was to follow, and turning round, he fled at full speed; but, quick as he was, he had still time to hear Dubois--with the most horrible oaths and curses--order his valet to beat him to death if ever again he put his foot inside the door of the Palais Royal. Buvat understood that there was no hope in that direction, and that, not only must he renounce the idea of being of service to D'Harmental, but also of the payment of his arrears, in which he had fondly trusted. This chain of thought naturally reminded him that for eight days he had not been to the library--he was near there--he resolved to go to his office, if it was only to excuse himself to his superior, and relate to him the causes of his absence; but here a grief, not less terrible than the rest, was in store for Buvat; on opening the door of his office, he saw his seat occupied--a stranger had been appointed to his place! As he had never before--during the whole fifteen years--been an hour late, the curator had imagined him dead, and had replaced him. Buvat had lost his situation for having saved France! This last stroke was more than he could bear, and Buvat returned home almost as ill as Bathilde. _ |
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