The Count's Millions, Emile Gaboriau [top 100 books of all time checklist TXT] 📗

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. Finding his endeavors fruitless, the doctor at last declared that all immediate remedies were exhausted, that “the women” might be allowed to return, and that nothing now remained but to wait for the effect of the remedies he was about to prescribe, and which they must procure from the nearest chemist.

Any other man would have been touched by the agony of entreaty contained in the glance that Mademoiselle Marguerite cast upon the physician as she returned into the room; but it did not affect him in the least. He calmly said, “I cannot give my decision as yet.”

“My God!” murmured the unhappy girl; “oh, my God, have mercy upon me!”

But the doctor, copying his model, had stationed himself near the fireplace, with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, in a graceful, though rather pompous attitude. “Now,” he said, addressing his remarks to M. Casimir, “I desire to make a few inquiries. Is this the first time the Count de Chalusse has had such an attack?”

“Yes, sir—at least since I have been in attendance upon him.”

“Very good. That is a chance in our favor. Tell me—have you ever heard him complain of vertigo, or of a buzzing in his ears?”

“Never.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed inclined to volunteer some remark, but the doctor imposed silence upon her by a gesture, and continued his examination. “Is the count a great eater?” he inquired. “Does he drink heavily?”

“The count is moderation itself, monsieur, and he always takes a great deal of water with his wine.”

The doctor listened with an air of intent thoughtfulness, his head slightly inclined forward, his brow contracted, and his under lip puffed out, while from time to time he stroked his beardless chin. He was copying his master. “The devil!” he said, sotto voce. “There must be some cause for such an attack, however. Nothing in the count’s constitution predisposes him to such an accident——” Then, suddenly turning toward Mademoiselle Marguerite: “Do you know, mademoiselle, whether the count has experienced any very violent emotion during the past few days?”

“Something occurred this very morning, which seemed to annoy him very much.”

“Ah! now we have it,” said the doctor, with the air of an oracle. “Why did you not tell me all this at first? It will be necessary for you to give me the particulars, mademoiselle.”

The young girl hesitated. The servants were dazed by the doctor’s manner; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was far from sharing their awe and admiration. She would have given anything to have had the regular physician of the household there instead of him! As for this coarse examination in the presence of all these servants, and by the bedside of a man who, in spite of his apparent unconsciousness, was, perhaps, able to hear and to comprehend, she looked upon it as a breach of delicacy, even of propriety.

“It is of the most urgent importance that I should be fully informed of these particulars,” repeated the physician peremptorily.

After such an assertion, further hesitation was out of the question. Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to collect her thoughts, and then she sadly said: “Just as we sat down to breakfast this morning, a letter was handed to the count. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it, than he turned as white as his napkin. He rose from his seat and began to walk hastily up and down the dining-room, uttering exclamations of anger and sorrow. I spoke to him, but he did not seem to hear me. However, after a few moments, he resumed his seat at the table, and began to eat——”

“As usual?”

“He ate more than usual, monsieur. Only I must tell you that it seemed to me he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing. Four or five times he left the table, and then came back again. At last, after quite a struggle, he seemed to come to some decision. He tore the letter to pieces, and threw the pieces out of the window that opens upon the garden.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite expressed herself with the utmost simplicity, and there was certainly nothing particularly extraordinary in her story. Still, those around her listened with breathless curiosity, as though they were expecting some startling revelation, so much does the human mind abhor that which is natural and incline to that which is mysterious.

Without seeming to notice the effect she had produced, and addressing herself to the physician alone, the girl continued: “After the letter was destroyed, M. de Chalusse seemed himself again. Coffee was served, and he afterward lighted a cigar as usual. However, he soon let it go out. I dared not disturb him by any remarks; but suddenly he said to me: ‘It’s strange, but I feel very uncomfortable.’ A moment passed, without either of us speaking, and then he added: ‘I am certainly not well. Will you do me the favor to go to my room for me? Here is the key of my escritoire; open it, and on the upper shelf you will find a small bottle which please bring to me.’ I noticed with some surprise that M.