“Did I say ‘jealousy ‘? then my suspicions are correct, and she is jealous of her cousin. Poor Antoinette! she like myself has noticed it, and has behaved throughout the evening with unparalleled goodness and unselfishness.

  “Amaury is the only one who sees nothing; really! men are often very blind.

  “I have thought of speaking to him about it; but perhaps if I did, he would be even more considerate in his behaviour towards Antoinette; therefore it is best to say nothing.

  “Ah! —

  “I thought she was waking, but after muttering a few disconnected words, she has turned over on her pillow and fallen asleep again. I long for, and yet dread her waking; she may be better, but what if she were worse? I must therefore watch patiently.

  “When I realize that, just because Amaury has held her in his arms, this is the second time she is so ill! Oh, God! I fear this man will be her death.

  “It seems hard to think that, had she never known him, she might yet live. And yet, no! for if it were not Amaury, it would be some other; such is the inevitable law of Nature. Every heart seeks its mate, every soul longs for its twin soul. Unhappy are they whose heart and soul are imprisoned in a feeble frame; they are crushed by the embrace.

  “No! marriage must not be thought of for her. Happiness would kill her; does she not lie there almost dying because of a moment’s bliss?”

  “30th May.

  “For the past week I have not dared write in this diary. For the last week my life hangs on each breath that she draws, on each throb of her pulse; for the last week I have not left this house, this room, this bedside, yet, although absorbed but by one single thought, never in all my life have the hours been filled with so many events, such a flood of emotions, so many thoughts. I have given up all my patients, so that I may devote my whole attention to her.

  “Twice has the King sent to tell me that he does not feel well and is in pain; but I sent word to his messenger, ‘Inform the King that my daughter is dying.’

  “Thank God! she is now a little better. It was time that the Angel of Death should loose his hold. Jacob wrestled one night only, but my struggle has lasted eight days and eight nights.

  “Oh, God! what words can depict the excitement of those moments when I thought the victory was mine; when I watched Nature, that beneficent helper whom God has given to science, assert her supremacy over disease; when after a crisis, I might almost say, a battle, I noted with relief a marked improvement; or when I consoled myself with vain hopes, only to have them dispelled an hour later by a fit of coughing or a rise of temperature.

  “Then would my mind be filled once more with misgivings; once more must I go down into the Valley of Despair; the enemy, kept at bay for a moment, now returned only the more furiously to the charge.

  “This cruel Vulture, who tears at my darling’s lungs, had settled anew on his prey; then I fell on my knees, and with head bowed down to the ground cried: ‘Oh! my God, my God! if Thine all- powerful providence will not come to the assistance of my poor limited skill, all is indeed lost!’

  “I have the reputation of being a clever physician; in Paris alone hundreds owe their lives to my skill; I have restored wives to their husbands, mothers to their daughters, daughters to their fathers, and yet I — my own child is dying, and I cannot say: ‘I am going to save her!’

  “Every day, as I go along the street, I pass people who look at me carelessly, who barely even acknowledge me, because they consider their debt to me wiped out by the few crowns they have paid me; and yet, had I deserted them, they would now be lying in the grave, instead of sunning themselves in the light of day. Can it be possible that when fighting, like a condottiere, for strangers, for people I do not know, for the man who passes me in the street, I have conquered grim Death; yet must fail when the life of my own child is at stake? Good God! she is my very life.

  “Alas! what a bitter mockery it all is; and what a cruel blow Fate deals my pride as a man of science.

  “Ah! the reason is that these other people were attacked by diseases — terrible it is true — but not absolutely fatal; diseases for which there is a known cure. We can cure typhoid fever by prescribing for the patient thin soups and Seidlitz water; or fight the most acute attack of meningitis by applications of antiphlogiston, or most gastric affections by Valsava’s treatment; but consumption!

  “There is one disease, and one alone, which God Himself must work a miracle to cure; and that is the disease with which God has stricken my child.

  “I know that there are one or two cases of phthisis on record which have been cured; but these were taken in the first stages of the disease. I myself have come across one such case at the hospital; it was that of a little orphan, whose father and mother were both dead, and whom no one would have missed; perhaps God took pity on him because he was else so desolate.

  “Sometimes I feel so thankful that fate ordained that I should be a doctor, it almost seems as if God knew beforehand that I should have to watch over my daughter’s life. Who, for the simple love of his profession, would have patiently watched by the bedside of this poor invalid, without leaving her for a moment? Who, for the sake of gold or fame, would be willing to do what I do for fatherly love alone? No one but myself!

  “Already her life would have been more than once in peril, had I not been always at hand, like her shadow, ready to forestall, to avert, to overcome all dangers.

  “Truly the anguish of watching the fight between life and death waged in the breast of one’s own child is a martyrdom unimagined even in Dante’s Inferno; perhaps to see that life pursued, vanquished, finally overcome, and the field abandoned to her implacable enemy.

  “Happily, as I have already said, for the present the disease is arrested; this is a respite for me, — I hope again.”

  CHAPTER XIX.

  “5th June.

  “THERE is an improvement, and this improvement, dear Antoinette, is due to you. Amaury has behaved splendidly; if this illness is attributable to him, at least no one could have done more than he has to repair the mischief. Every moment that he could spend with Madeleine, he has been with her; and I am certain that his one thought is of her.

  “One thing, however, I have noticed, and that is that when Antoinette and Amaury were in Madeleine’s room at the same time, she became restless, and her her eyes wandered from Antoinette to Amaury, as if trying to surprise a look between them. She did not know, poor child, that, as from force of habit her hand was in mine, I could read by her quick pulse the jealousy she felt; if one or other were alone with her, her pulse became normal; but if, by chance, neither of them were in the room at the same time, then, poor little girl, how she suffered. How the fever burned in her veins until one or the other returned!

  “Amaury had to be always with her; just now his presence is as necessary to her as the air she breathes. Perhaps later it may be different.

  “I dare not keep Antoinette away; for how could I say to this young innocent girl: ‘Antoinette, you had best not come into the room!’

  “She has however guessed everything. The day before yesterday, she followed me into my study and said: ‘Uncle dear, you were saying the other day that, as soon as the fine weather had come, and Madeleine were stronger, you would take her to Ville d’Auray; well, the nice long days have come now, and Madeleine is better. But as the house has been uninhabited since last year, it must be prepared before it can be fit for you to go into it. Now that Madeleine is so delicate, her room in particular must be carefully seen to. So, uncle dear, I come to ask your permission to go and see to all this for you.’

  “From the moment she began to speak, I had fixed my eyes upon her; she bent her head under my steady gaze, and when she looked up again, my arms were open to receive her; she threw herself into them and burst into tears.

  “‘Oh! my dear good uncle,’ she cried, ‘indeed it is not my fault. Amaury never notices me, never thinks of me, and since Madeleine is ill, he has even forgotten my very existence; and yet she is jealous, and this jealousy is bad for her. Do not contradict me, you know it as well as I do. One can read this jealousy in her whole appearance; in her passionate eyes, her trembling speech, and her disordered gestures. Dear uncle, it is best that I should go; you know it is; and, perhaps, were you not so thoroughly good, you would long ago have sent me away.’

  “My only answer was to press her to my heart.

  “Then we went back together to Madeleine’s room, where we found her restless and excited.

  “Amaury had been absent half-an-hour, and evidently Madeleine believed they were together.

  “‘My dear child,’ I said, ‘as you are now so much better, and as I hope, in another fortnight, we may all be able to go into the country together, our good Antoinette has offered to act as our courier, and is going on ahead to see that the house is properly prepared.’

  “‘What! ‘Madeleine exclaimed, ‘is Antoinette going to Ville d’Auray.’

  “‘Yes dear; as your father says, you are now going on well, and have your maid, Miss Brown and Amaury to look after you — quite a sufficient number of nurses for a convalescent; in the meantime, I shall have your room got ready, see to your flowers, arrange your conservatories, and you will find everything ready for you on your arrival.’

  ‘“Then when do you leave,’ Madeleine asked, unable to conceal her emotion.

  “‘Immediately! the carriage is coming round at once.’

  “Then whether from a feeling of remorse or gratitude, or perhaps from a mixture of both, Madeleine threw her arms round Antoinette’s neck and kissed her; it even seemed to me that Madeleine whispered in her cousin s ear: ‘Forgive me.’

  “Then, with an evident effort, Madeleine asked Antoinette: ‘Will you wait to wish Amaury goodbye?’

  “‘Why should I? ‘said Antoinette, ‘we shall be seeing each other again in two or three weeks. You must wish him goodbye and give him a kiss for me; he will like that much better, I assure you.’

  “And with these words Antoinette went away.

  “Ten minutes later, we heard the sound of wheels, and Joseph announced that Antoinette had gone.

  “Oddly enough, all this time I had my finger on Madeleine’s pulse. There was a marked change in the beats as soon as she knew that Antoinette had gone; from ninety it dropped to seventy-five. Then, worn out with emotions, which to a stranger seeing only on the surface of things, would have seemed slight enough, she fell into a calmer, quieter sleep than she had perhaps known since that fatal evening when we laid her on the bed from which she had not yet risen.

  “As I expected Amaury at any moment, I set her bedroom door ajar, so that he should not wake her in coming into the room. I was only just in time, as in another moment he appeared. I made him a sign to take his place on that side of the bed where my daughter’s head rested, so that when she woke, her eyes might rest first on him.,.

  “Ah! my God! Thou knowest that I am no longer jealous; may her eyes not close until she has lived a long life, and let her thoughts be all for him.

  “Since that moment she has taken a turn for the better.”

  “9th June.

  “Thank God! the improvement continues.”

  “10th June.

  “Now her life is in Amaury’s hands. If he consents to what I suggest, she will be saved!”

  CHAPTER XX.

  THE events just narrated we have quoted from Monsieur d’Avrigny’s diary itself, as no other account could have given so accurate an idea of what had passed at poor Madeleine’s bedside, and also in the minds of those by whom she was surrounded.

  As Monsieur d’Avrigny had said, the patient was decidedly better, thanks to the father’s scrupulous care, and the physician’s penetration and profound knowledge. And yet in spite of his knowledge — or rather because of this knowledge which enabled him so thoroughly to understand the mysteries of the human frame, Monsieur d’Avrigny had come to realize that besides himself and the disease, the good and evil geniuses who fought one against the other, there was yet a third influence, which sometimes sided with the disease, sometimes with the doctor; this was Amaury.

  This was why he had written in his diary that henceforth Madeleine’s life was in the hands of her lover.

  The day after he had written these lines, and when he and Amaury had both left Madeleine’s room, he sent to tell the young man that he wished to speak to him.

  Amaury, who had not yet retired, immediately joined Monsieur d’Avrigny in his study.

  The old man was sitting at the corner of the fire, his head thrown back against the marble chimney-piece, and plunged in so deep a reverie that he did not hear the door open and close, nor even the sound of the young man’s footsteps, deadened, it is true, by a thick carpet, as he came and stood beside him.

  Amaury waited a few moments in silence, then unable longer to conceal his anxiety, he said: “You wished to see me, dear father, has anything new happened? is Madeleine worse?”

  “No, on the contrary, my boy,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, “it is just because she is better that I have sent for you.”

  “Sit down,” he continued, motioning him to a chair, “and let us have a chat.”

  Amaury complied in silence, but not without a feeling of anxiety, because although Monsieur d’Avrigny’s words were reassuring, his tone was solemn and conveyed the impression that the subject he wished to discuss was a serious one.

  As soon as Amaury was seated, Monsieur d’Avrigny took his hand, and gazing at him with the look of mixed gentleness and firmness which the young man had often seen in his face during his long vigils beside Madeleine’s bedside, he said: “My dear Amaury, we may compare ourselves to two soldiers who have met on a field of battle; we have matched our strength,. we know the extent of our forces and we may speak openly to each other.”

  “Alas! father dear,” Amaury replied, “during all this long struggle, in which, let us hope, you have conquered, I have, I fear, been an auxiliary of but little use. If, however, the power of a boundless love, and of earnest heart-felt prayers, are of any avail in God’s sight, and may claim a place beside the miracles wrought by science, then I too may venture to hope that I have been instrumental in aiding Madeleine’s convalescence.”

  “Yes! Amaury; and therefore knowing the full extent of your love, I hope you will consent to make a small sacrifice for her sake.”

  “I am willing to do anything you wish, dear father, except give her up.”

  “You may reassure yourself on that point, my son; Madeleine is yours, or rather she shall never belong to anyone but you.”

  “Then what, in Heaven’s name, do you mean?”

  “Listen to me, Amaury,” the old man continued, taking the young man’s other hand in his and holding them both in a warm grasp, “do not think that, as a father, I wish to reproach you, I merely wish, as a doctor, to state a fact. Although since my child’s earliest days, I have carefully watched over her health, only twice have I had any real cause for serious anxiety; the first time was when, in the small drawing-room, you told her of your love — the second time — ”

  “Oh yes! dear father! do not, I implore you, remind me of it; I remember it all only too well; and very often, in the silence of night, when you are watching beside Madeleine, and I weeping alone in my room, this recollection has haunted me with a feeling of remorse; but what is to be done? When I am with Madeleine, I am no longer master of myself, reason itself is overthrown, I am carried away by the force of my love, and everything is forgotten; it is not my fault — you must forgive me?”

  “And so I do, my dear boy, because were it otherwise, you could not love her. Alas! there lies the difference between your love and mine. My love constantly foresees troubles to come; yours quickly forgets those that are past. And this is why, my dear Amaury, for some time, she must be deprived of your blind, selfish love, and surrounded only by my watchful, anxious affection.”

  “Good Heavens! what are you saying? Must I indeed leave Madeleine?”

  “Only for a few months.”

  “But, my dear father, Madeleine loves me as much as I do her; no! not quite as much, I know, for that would be impossible (Monsieur d’Avrigny smiled). Are you not afraid that my absence will do your child more harm than my presence would?”

  “No! Amaury; for she will always be looking forward to your meeting, and hope is a gentle nurse.”

  “But where can I go? What excuse can I give her?”

  “The excuse is already found, and it is not even an excuse. I have obtained an appointment for you at the Court of Naples; you must tell her, or rather I will, so that she will in no way blame you, that the success of your future depends on the manner in which you accomplish the mission entrusted to you. Then, if she begins to expostulate, I shall whisper to her: ‘Hush, hush! Madeleine; we shall go and meet him; ‘so that instead of being parted for three months, you will only be separated six weeks.”

  “You will meet me on my way home, father?”

  “Yes! we will go as far as Nice; Madeleine needs the warm sunny air of Italy; I shall take her to Nice because we can accomplish the journey there with very little fatigue, by going up the Seine, and along the canal to Briare, then down the Saône and Rhone. Once at Nice, I shall send you word whether to come at once, or delay a little, — according as my poor child is strong or weak; in this way, you can see that your absence will not be a misfortune, because the hope of a speedy re-union will turn it into a soothing joy, and she will be free from these sudden emotions which the mere sight of you produces in her, free from these sudden shocks which shatter her nerves so completely. Twice have I saved her life; but, I warn you, Amaury, a third shock will kill her; and if you remain here, that third shock is inevitable.”

  “Oh God! oh! God!”

  “Amaury, I do not ask you to do this for your sake or for mine, but for hers; have pity on my poor broken lily, and help me to save her; can you compare the separation of a moment, of a short time only, with the separation of death which would be eternal?”