The Counts Millions | Page 5

was standing on the
threshold.
Mademoiselle Marguerite was a beautiful young girl, about twenty
years of age. She was a brunette of medium height, with big gloomy
eyes shaded by thick eyebrows. Heavy masses of jet-black hair
wreathed her lofty but rather sad and thoughtful forehead. There was
something peculiar in her face--an expression of concentrated suffering,
and a sort of proud resignation, mingled with timidity.
"What has happened?" she asked, gently. "What is the cause of all the
noise I have heard? I have rung three times and the bell was not
answered."
No one ventured to reply, and in her surprise she cast a hasty glance
around. From where she stood, she could not see the bed stationed in an
alcove; but she instantly noted the dejected attitude of the servants, the
clothing scattered about the floor, and the disorder that pervaded this
magnificent but severely furnished chamber, which was only lighted by
the lamp which M. Bourigeau, the concierge, carried. A sudden dread
seized her; she shuddered, and in a faltering voice she added: "Why are
you all here? Speak, tell me what has happened."
M. Casimir stepped forward. "A great misfortune, mademoiselle, a
terrible misfortune. The count----"
And he paused, frightened by what he was about to say.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite had understood him. She clasped both
hands to her heart, as if she had received a fatal wound, and uttered the
single word: "Lost!"
The next moment she turned as pale as death, her head drooped, her
eyes closed, and she staggered as if about to fall. Two maids sprang
forward to support her, but she gently repulsed them, murmuring,
"Thanks! thanks! I am strong now."
She was, in fact, sufficiently strong to conquer her weakness. She
summoned all her resolution, and, paler than a statue, with set teeth and
dry, glittering eyes, she approached the alcove. She stood there for a

moment perfectly motionless, murmuring a few unintelligible words;
but at last, crushed by her sorrow, she sank upon her knees beside the
bed, buried her face in the counterpane and wept.
Deeply moved by the sight of this despair, the servants held their breath,
wondering how it would all end. It ended suddenly. The girl sprang
from her knees, as if a gleam of hope had darted through her heart. "A
physician!" she said, eagerly.
"I have sent for one, mademoiselle," replied M. Casimir. And hearing a
voice and a sound of footsteps on the staircase, he added: "And
fortunately, here he comes."
The doctor entered. He was a young man, although his head was almost
quite bald. He was short, very thin, clean-shaven, and clad in black
from head to foot. Without a word, without a bow, he walked straight
to the bedside, lifted the unconscious man's eyelids, felt his pulse, and
uncovered his chest, applying his ear to it. "This is a serious case," he
said at the close of his examination.
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had followed his movements with the
most poignant anxiety, could not repress a sob. "But all hope is not lost,
is it, monsieur?" she asked in a beseeching voice, with hands clasped in
passionate entreaty. "You will save him, will you not--you will save
him?"
"One may always hope for the best."
This was the doctor's only answer. He had drawn his case of
instruments from his pocket, and was testing the points of his lancets
on the tip of his finger. When he had found one to his liking: "I must
ask you, mademoiselle," said he, "to order these women to retire, and to
retire yourself. The men will remain to assist me, if I require help."
She obeyed submissively, but instead of returning to her own room, she
remained in the hall, seating herself upon the lower step of the staircase
near the door, counting the seconds, and drawing a thousand
conjectures from the slightest sound.
Meanwhile, inside the room, the physician was proceeding slowly, not
from temperament however, but from principle. Dr. Jodon--for such
was his name--was an ambitious man who played a part. Educated by a
"prince of science," more celebrated for the money he gained than for
the cures he effected, he copied his master's method, his gestures, and
even the inflections of his voice. By casting in people's eyes the same

powder as his teacher had employed, he hoped to obtain the same
results: a large practice and an immense fortune. In his secret heart he
was by no means disconcerted by his patient's condition; on the
contrary, he did not consider the count's state nearly as precarious as it
really was.
But bleeding and cupping alike failed to bring the sick man to
consciousness. He remained speechless and motionless; the only result
obtained, was that his breathing became a trifle easier.