LITMIR.BIZ

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her grief.

      “Madame!” said he, “Madame!”

      She shuddered and rose, with a wandering air.

      “It is my fault,” said she, “my miserable fault! A mother should read her daughter’s heart as in a book. I did not suspect Laurence’s secret; I am a most unhappy mother.”

      The doctor also came to her.

      “Madame,” said he, in an imperious tone, “your husband must be persuaded to go to bed at once. His condition is very serious, and a little sleep is absolutely necessary. I will have a potion prepared—”

      “Oh, my God!” cried the poor lady, wringing her hands, in the fear of a new misfortune, as bitter as the first; which, however, restored her to her presence of mind. She called the servants, who assisted the mayor to regain his chamber. Mme. Courtois also retired, followed by the doctor. Three persons only remained in the drawing-room—Plantat, Lecoq, and Robelot, who still stood near the door.

      “Poor Laurence!” murmured Plantat. “Poor girl!”

      “It seems to me that her father is most to be pitied,” remarked M. Lecoq. “Such a blow, at his age, may be more than he can bear. Even should he recover, his life is broken.”

      “I had a sort of presentiment,” said the other, “that this misfortune would come. I had guessed Laurence’s secret, but I guessed it too late.”

      “And you did not try—”

      “What? In a delicate case like this, when the honor of a family depends on a word, one must be circumspect. What could I do? Put Courtois on his guard? Clearly not. He would have refused to believe me. He is one of those men who will listen to nothing, and whom the brutal fact alone can undeceive.”

      “You might have dealt with the Count de Tremorel.”

      “The count would have denied all. He would have asked what right I had to interfere in his affairs.”

      “But the girl?”

      M. Plantat sighed heavily.

      “Though I detest mixing up with what does not concern me, I did try one day to talk with her. With infinite precaution and delicacy, and without letting her see that I knew all, I tried to show her the abyss near which she was drawing.”

      “And what did she reply?”

      “Nothing. She laughed and joked, as women who have a secret which they wish to conceal, do. Besides, I could not get a quarter of an hour alone with her, and it was necessary to act, I knew—for I was her best friend—before committing this imprudence of speaking to her. Not a day passed that she did not come to my garden and cull my rarest flowers—and I would not, look you, give one of my flowers to the Pope himself. She had instituted me her florist in ordinary. For her sake I collected my briars of the Cape—”

      He was talking on so wide of his subject that M. Lecoq could not repress a roguish smile. The old man was about to proceed when he heard a noise in the hall, and looking up he observed Robelot for the first time. His face at once betrayed his great annoyance.

      “You were there, were you?” he said.

      The bone-setter smiled obsequiously.

      “Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service.”

      “You have been listening, eh?”

      “Oh, as to that, I was waiting to see if Madame Courtois had any commands for me.”

      A sudden reflection occurred to M. Plantat; the expression of his eye changed. He winked at M. Lecoq to call his attention, and addressing the bone-setter in a milder tone, said: “Come here, Master Robelot.”

      Lecoq had read the man at a glance. Robelot was a small, insignificant-looking man, but really of herculean strength. His hair, cut short behind, fell over his large, intelligent forehead. His eyes shone with the fire of covetousness, and expressed, when he forgot to guard them, a cynical boldness. A sly smile was always playing about his thin lips, beneath which there was no beard. A little way off, with his slight figure and his beardless face, he looked like a Paris gamin—one of those little wretches who are the essence of all corruption, whose imagination is more soiled than the gutters where they search for lost pennies.

      Robelot advanced several steps, smiling and bowing. “Perhaps,” said he, “Monsieur has, by chance, need of me?”

      “None whatever, Master Robelot, I only wish to congratulate you on happening in so apropos, to bleed Monsieur Courtois. Your lancet has, doubtless, saved his life.”

      “It’s quite possible.”

      “Monsieur Courtois is generous—he will amply recompense this great service.”

      “Oh, I shall ask him nothing. Thank God, I want nobody’s help. If I am paid my due, I am content.”

      “I know that well enough; you are prosperous—you ought to be satisfied.”

      M. Plantat’s tone was friendly, almost paternal. He was deeply interested, evidently, in Robelot’s prosperity.

      “Satisfied!” resumed the bone-setter. “Not so much as you might think. Life is very dear for poor people.”

      “But, haven’t you just purchased an estate near d’Йvry?”

      “Yes.”

      “And a nice place, too, though a trifle damp. Happily you have stone to fill it in with, on the land that you bought of the widow Frapesle.”

      Robelot had never seen the old justice of the peace so talkative, so familiar; he seemed a little surprised.

      “Three wretched pieces of land!” said he.

      “Not so bad as you talk about. Then you’ve also bought something in the way of mines, at auction, haven’t you?”

      “Just a bunch of nothing at all.”

      “True, but it pays well. It isn’t so bad, you see, to be a doctor without a diploma.”

      Robelot had been several times prosecuted for illegal practicing; so he thought he ought to protest against this.

      “If I cure people,” said he, “I’m not paid for it.”

      “Then your trade in herbs isn’t what has enriched you.”

      The conversation was becoming a cross-examination. The bone-setter was beginning to be restless.

      “Oh, I make something out of the herbs,” he answered.

      “And as you are thrifty, you buy land.”

      “I’ve also got some cattle and horses, which bring in something. I raise horses, cows, and sheep.”

      “Also without diploma?”

      Robelot waxed disdainful.

      “A piece of parchment does not make science. I don’t fear the men of the schools. I study animals in the fields and the stable, without bragging. I haven’t my equal for raising them, nor for knowing their diseases.”

      M. Plantat’s tone became more and more winning.

      “I know that you are a bright fellow, full of experience. Doctor Gendron, with whom you served, was praising your cleverness a moment ago.”

      The bone-setter shuddered, not so imperceptibly as to escape Plantat, who continued: “Yes, the good doctor said he never had so intelligent an assistant. ‘Robelot,’ said he, ’has such an aptitude for chemistry, and so much taste for it besides, that he understands as well as I many of the most delicate operations.’”

      “Parbleu! I did my best, for I was well paid, and I was always fond of learning.”

      “And you were an apt scholar at Doctor Gendron’s, Master Robelot; he makes some very curious studies. His work and experience on poisons are above all remarkable.”

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