CHAPTER XXXIX.
A PRIME MINISTER'S MEMORY.
When Bathilde reopened her eyes, she found herself in MademoiselleEmilie's room. Mirza was lying on the end of the bed; the two sisterswere one at each side of her pillow, and Buvat, overcome by grief, wassitting 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 ofbodily pain; she raised her hand to her head; the wound was behind thetemple. A doctor, who had been called in, had arranged the firstdressing, and left orders that he was to be sent for if fever declareditself.
Astonished to find herself--on waking from a sleep which had appeared toher heavy and painful--in bed in a strange room, the young girl turnedan inquiring glance on each person present, but Emilie and Athenaisshunned her eyes, and Buvat heaved a mournful sigh. Mirza alonestretched out her little head for a caress. Unluckily for the coaxinglittle creature, Bathilde began to recover her memory; the veil whichwas drawn before the late events rose little by little, and soon shebegan to connect the broken threads which might guide her in the past.She recalled the return of Buvat, what he had told her of theconspiracy, the danger which would result to D'Harmental from therevelation he had made. Then she remembered her hope of being in time tosave him, the rapidity with which she had crossed the street and mountedthe staircase; lastly, her entry into Raoul's room returned to hermemory, and once more she found herself before the corpse ofRoquefinette.
"And he," she cried, "what has become of him?"
No one answered, for neither of the three persons who were in the roomknew what reply to give; only Buvat, choking with tears, rose, and wenttoward the door. Bathilde understood the grief and remorse expressed inthat mute withdrawal; she stopped him by a look, and extending her armstoward 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 hisknees, and kissing her hand, "I love you no longer! My God! it will beyou 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 haverisked all, suffered all, rather than--. But you told me nothing, youhad no confidence in me, and I--with the best intentions in theworld--made nothing but mistakes; oh, unlucky, unhappy, that I am, youwill never forgive me, and then--how shall I live?"
"Father," cried Bathilde, "for Heaven's sake try and find out what hashappened."
"Well, my child, well, I will discover; will not you forgive me if Ibring 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 givinghim a kiss in which fifteen years of gratitude struggled with one day ofpain; "go, my existence is in the hands of God, He only can decidewhether I shall live or die."
Buvat understood nothing of all this but the kiss, and--having inquiredof Madame Denis how the chevalier had been dressed--he set out on hisquest.
It was no easy matter for a detective so simple as Buvat to traceRaoul's progress; he had learned from a neighbor that he had been seento spring upon a gray horse which had remained some half hour fastenedto the shutter, and that he had turned round the Rue Gros Chenet. Agrocer, who lived at the corner of the Rue des Jeuneurs, rememberedhaving seen a cavalier, whose person and horse agreed perfectly with thedescription given by Buvat, pass by at full gallop; and, lastly, a fruitwoman, who kept a little shop at the corner of the Boulevards, sworepositively that she had seen the man, and that he had disappeared by thePorte Saint Denis; but from this point all the information was vague,unsatisfactory, and uncertain, so that, after two hours of uselessinquiry, Buvat returned to Madame Denis's house without any moredefinite information to give Bathilde than that, wherever D'Harmentalmight be gone, he had passed along the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Buvatfound his ward much agitated; during his absence she had grown rapidlyworse, and the crisis foreseen by the doctor was fast approaching.Bathilde's eyes flashed; her skin seemed to glow; her words were shortand firm. Madame Denis had just sent for the doctor.
The poor woman was not without her own anxieties; for some time she hadsuspected that the Abbe Brigaud was mixed up in some plot, and what shehad just learned, that D'Harmental was not a poor student but a richcolonel, confirmed her conjectures, since it had been Brigaud who hadintroduced him to her. This similarity of position had not a littlecontributed to soften her heart--always kind--toward Bathilde. Shelistened, then, with eagerness to the little information which Buvat hadbeen able to collect for the sufferer, and, as it was far from beingsufficiently positive to calm the patient, she promised, if she heardanything herself, to report it directly.
In the meantime the doctor arrived. Great as was his command overhimself, it was easy to see that he thought Bathilde in some danger--hebled her abundantly, ordered refreshing drinks, and advised that someone should watch at the bedside. Emilie and Athenais, who, their littleabsurdities excepted, were excellent girls, declared directly that thatwas their business, and that they would pass the night with Bathildealternately; Emilie, as eldest, claimed the first watch, which was givenher 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 consenttill Bathilde herself had begged it. The bleeding had somewhat calmedher, and she seemed to feel better; Madame Denis had left the room;Mademoiselle Athenais also had retired; Monsieur Boniface, afterreturning from the Morgue, where he had been to pay a visit to the bodyof Roquefinette, had mounted to his own room, and Emilie watched by thefire-place, and read a little book which she took from her pocket. Sheshortly heard a movement in the bed, and ran toward it; then, after aninstant's silence, during which she heard the opening and shutting oftwo or three doors, and before she had time to say--"That is not thevoice of Monsieur Raoul, it is the Abbe Brigaud," Bathilde had fallenback on her pillow.
An instant afterward Madame Denis half opened the door, and in atrembling 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 nowremembered having several times seen the abbe at D'Harmental's rooms;she knew that he was one of the most intimate friends of Madame deMaine; she thought, then, that the abbe must bring news of him. Herfirst idea was to slip from the bed, put on a dressing-gown, and go andask what had happened; but she considered that if the news was bad theywould not tell it, and that it would be better to overhear theconversation, which appeared animated. Consequently she pressed her earto the panel, and listened as if her whole life had been spent incultivating that single sense.
Brigaud was relating to Madame Denis what had happened. Valef had madehis way to the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and given warning to Madame deMaine of the failure of the expedition. Madame de Maine had immediatelyfreed the conspirators from their oaths, advised Malezieux and Brigaudto save themselves, and retired to the Arsenal. Brigaud came thereforeto bid adieu to Madame Denis; he was going to attempt to reach Spain inthe disguise of a peddler. In the midst of his recital, interrupted bythe exclamation of poor Madame Denis and of Mesdemoiselles Athenais andEmilie, the abbe thought that he heard a cry in the next room, just atthe time when he was relating D'Harmental's catastrophe; but as no onehad paid any attention to the cry, and as he was not aware of Bathilde'sbeing there, he had attached no importance to this noise, regarding thenature of which he might easily have been mistaken; moreover, Boniface,summoned in his turn, had entered at the moment, and, as the abbe had aparticular fancy for Boniface, his entrance had naturally turnedBrigaud's thoughts into a different channel.
Still, this was not the time for long leave-takings; Brigaud desiredthat daylight should find him as far as possible from Paris. He tookleave of the Denis family, and set out with Boniface, who declared thathe would accompany friend Brigaud as far as the barrier.
As they opened the stairca
se-door they heard the voice of the portress,who appeared to be opposing the passage of some one; they descended todiscover the cause of the discussion, and found Bathilde, with streaminghair, naked feet, and wrapped in a long white robe, standing on thestaircase, and endeavoring to go out in spite of the efforts of theportress. The poor girl had heard everything; the fever had changed intodelirium; she would join Raoul; she would see him again; she would diewith him.
The three women took her in their arms. For a minute she struggledagainst them, murmuring incoherent words; her cheeks were flushed withfever, while her limbs trembled, and her teeth chattered; but soon herstrength failed her, her head sank back, and, calling on the name ofRaoul, she fainted a second time.
They sent once more for the doctor. What he had feared was now no longerdoubtful--brain fever had declared itself. At this moment some oneknocked; it was Buvat, whom Brigaud and Boniface had found wandering toand fro before the house like a ghost; and who, not able to keep up anylonger, had come to beg a seat in some corner, he did not care where, solong as from time to time he had news of Bathilde. The poor family weretoo sad themselves not to feel for the grief of others. Madame signed toBuvat to seat himself in a corner, and retired into her own room withAthenais, leaving Emilie once more with the sufferer. About daybreakBoniface returned: he had gone with Brigaud as far as the Barriered'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 oftenmentioned Buvat's name, and always accused him of having killed herlover. Buvat heard it, and, without daring to defend himself, to reply,or even to groan, had silently burst into tears, and, pondering on whatmeans existed of repairing the evil he had caused, he at last arrived ata desperate resolution. He approached the bed, kissed the feverish handof Bathilde, who did not recognize him, and went out.
Buvat had, in fact, determined on a bold course. It was to go himselfto Dubois, tell him everything, and ask, as his recompense--not thepayment of his arrears--not advancement at the library--but pardon forD'Harmental. It was the least that could be accorded to the man whom theregent himself had called the savior of France. Buvat did not doubt thathe should soon return bearing good news, and that it would restoreBathilde to health.
Consequently Buvat went home to arrange his disordered dress, which borethe 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 soearly, for fear of disturbing him. His toilet finished, and as it wasstill only nine o'clock, he returned for a few minutes to Bathilde'sroom--it was that which the young girl had left the day before. Buvatsat down in the chair which she had quitted, touched the articles whichshe liked to touch, kissed the feet of the crucifix, which she kissedeach night--one would have thought him a lover following the steps ofhis mistress.
Ten o'clock struck; it was the hour at which Buvat had often beforerepaired to the Palais Royal. The fear of being importunate gave placeto the hope of being received as he had always been. He took his hat andcane, and called at Madame Denis's to ask how Bathilde had been duringhis absence; he found that she had never ceased to call for Raoul. Thedoctor 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 forfour or five days, suffered horribly from the malady which was to causehis death in a few months; moreover, he was beyond measure annoyed thatonly D'Harmental had been taken, and had just given orders to Leblancand D'Argenson to press on the trial with all possible speed, when hisvalet-de-chambre, who was accustomed to see the worthy writer arriveevery morning, announced M. Buvat.
"And who the devil is M. Buvat?"
"It is I, monseigneur," said the poor fellow, venturing to slip betweenthe valet and the door, and bowing his honest head before the primeminister.
"Well, who are you?" asked Dubois, as if he had never seen him before.
"What, monseigneur!" exclaimed the astonished Buvat; "do you notrecognize me? I come to congratulate you on the discovery of theconspiracy."
"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 rememberthat you promised me a--a recompense?"
"A recompense to you, you double idiot."
"What! monseigneur," continued poor Buvat, getting more and morefrightened, "do you not recollect that you told me, here, in this veryroom, that I had my fortune at my fingers' ends?"
"And now," said Dubois, "I tell you that you have your life in yourlegs, for unless you decamp pretty quick--"
"But, monseigneur--"
"Ah! you reason with me, scoundrel," shouted Dubois, raising himselfwith one hand on the arm of his chair, and the other on his archbishop'scrook, "wait, then, you shall see--"
Buvat had seen quite enough; at the threatening gesture of the premierhe understood what was to follow, and turning round, he fled at fullspeed; but, quick as he was, he had still time to hear Dubois--with themost horrible oaths and curses--order his valet to beat him to death ifever again he put his foot inside the door of the Palais Royal.
Buvat understood that there was no hope in that direction, and that, notonly must he renounce the idea of being of service to D'Harmental, butalso of the payment of his arrears, in which he had fondly trusted. Thischain of thought naturally reminded him that for eight days he had notbeen 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 thecauses of his absence; but here a grief, not less terrible than therest, was in store for Buvat; on opening the door of his office, he sawhis seat occupied--a stranger had been appointed to his place!
As he had never before--during the whole fifteen years--been an hourlate, the curator had imagined him dead, and had replaced him. Buvat hadlost his situation for having saved France!
This last stroke was more than he could bear, and Buvat returned homealmost as ill as Bathilde.