The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 20/Nicette
From the French of Saint-Juirs.
OU are a dead man!" said the doctor, looking intently at Anatole.
Anatole staggered.
He had come gaily to pass the evening with his old friend, Dr. Bardais, the illustrious savant whose works on venomous substances are known all over the world, whose nobility of heart and almost paternal goodness Anatole had learned to know better than any other living soul; and now, without the least hesitation or preparation, he heard this terrible prognostication issue from those authoritative lips!
"Unhappy child, what have you done?" continued the doctor.
"Nothing that I know of," stammered Anatole, greatly agitated.
"Tax your memory, tell me what you have eaten or drunk—what you have inhaled?"
The last word was a ray of light to Anatole. That very morning he had received a letter from one of his friends who was travelling in India; in the letter was a flower plucked on a bank of the Ganges by the traveller—a strangely-formed red flower, the perfume of which—he now recalled the fact vividly—had appeared to him to be singularly penetrative. He hastily drew forth his pocket-book and produced the letter with its contents and handed them to the savant.
"No doubt is possible!" cried the doctor; "it is the Pyramenensis Indica! the deadly flower, the flower of blood!"
"Then,—you—really think—?"
"Alas! I am sure of it."
"But—it is impossible!—I am only five-and-twenty years of age, and feel full of life and health!—"
"At what hour did you open that fatal letter?"
"This morning, at nine o'clock."
"Well-to-morrow morning, at the same hour, at the same minute, in full health, as you say, you will feel a pain in your heart—and all will be over."
"And you know of no remedy—no means of—"
"None!" said the doctor.
And, covering his face with his hands, he sank into a chair overcome by grief.
In face of the profound emotion of his old friend, Anatole understood that he was really condemned.
He hurried from the doctor's house like a madman. His forehead bathed in cold perspiration, his ideas all confused, going he knew not whither, he sped on and on amid the darkness of the night, taking no heed of the loneliness of the streets he was traversing. For a long time he pursued this blind course, until at length, finding a bench, he sank down upon it.
How many hours had he still to live?
The persistent and distressing sound of a racking cough brought him back to consciousness; he looked in the direction whence it came and saw, seated upon the same bench, a pale and weak little flower-girl—a child not more than eight years old, who as François Coppée says,
"Dies of the winter while offering us the spring."
That verse of the poet's recurred to the mind of Anatole; he felt in his waistcoat-pocket and found there two sous and two louis. He was going to give the poor child the two sous; but recollecting that he had only a few hours longer to live, he gave her the two louis.
This incident did him good.
He had been like a man stunned by a blow on the head; his bewilderment was overcome now, and he began to reassemble his dislocated ideas.
"My situation," he said to himself, "is that of a man condemned to death. A man in that position may still, however, hope for pardon—many of that sort are pardoned in our days. In past times even, some have been saved from the axe or the cord, to devote themselves to some difficult or dangerous piece of work—the launching of a ship, for example, or, as in the time of Louis XI., to marry an old woman. If I were consulted in the matter, I should prefer to launch a ship. Unfortunately, I shall not be consulted during the short interval of time that remains to me. But, by the way, how long have I got to live?"
He looked at his watch.
"Three o'clock in the morning—it is time to go to bed. To bed!—waste in sleep my last six hours! Not if I know it. I have certainly something better than that to do. But what? Of course—to make my will."
A restaurant—one of those which keep open all night—was not far off. Anatole entered it.
"Garçon, a bottle of champagne—and ink and paper."
He drank a glass of Cliquot and looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper before him.
"To whom shall I bequeath my six thousand francs a year? I have neither father nor mother—happily for them! Amongst the persons who interest me, I see only one—Nicette."
Nicette was a charming girl of eighteen, with blonde tresses and large black eyes; an orphan like himself—a community in misfortune which had long established between them a secret and complete sympathy.
His last will and testament was speedily drawn up: universal legatee, Nicette.
That done, he drank a second glass of champagne.
"Poor Nicette," he mused; "she was very sad when I last saw her. Her guardian, who knows nothing of the world outside his class of wind instruments at the Conservatoire de Musique, had taken upon himself to promise her hand to a brute of an amateur of fencing whom she detests—the more because she has given her heart to somebody else. Who is that happy mortal?—I haven't the least idea; but he is certainly worthy of her, or she would never have chosen him. Good, gentle, beautiful, loving Nicette deserves the ideal of husbands. Ah! she is the very wife that would have suited me, if—if—. By Jove, it's an infamy, to compel her to destroy her life—by confiding such a treasure to such a brute! I have never before so well understood the generous ardour which fired the breasts of the wandering knights, and spurred them on to the deliverance of oppressed beauty!—And, now I come to think of it, what hinders me from becoming the knight-errant of Nicette? My fate is settled—at nine o'clock—after that it will be too late; now, therefore, is the time for action! The hour is a little unusual for visiting people; but, when I reflect that, five hours hence, I shall be no more, I conclude that I have no time for standing on etiquette. Forward!—my life for Nicette!"
Anatole rose and then, perceiving that he had no money, he gave his gold watch to the waiter in payment for the champagne—a watch worth five hundred francs.
"He examined it closely."
The garçon took the chronometer, and examined it closely—weighed it in his hand, opened it—and finally put it in his pocket doubtfully and without thanking Anatole.
It was four o'clock in the morning when he rang at the door of Monsieur Bouvard, the guardian of Nicette. He rang once, twice, and, at the third tug, broke the bell-wire. At length Monsieur Bouvard himself, in his night dress and in great alarm, came and opened the door.
"What is the matter—is the house on fire?"
"No, my dear Monsieur Bouvard," said Anatole, "I have only paid you a little visit."
"At this hour!"
"It is pleasant to see you at any hour, my dear Monsieur Bouvard! But you are so lightly dressed—pray get into bed again."
"I am going to do so. But, I suppose, Monsieur, that it was not simply to trouble me in this way that you have come at such an hour? You have something of importance to say to me?"
"Very important, Monsieur Bouvard! It is to tell you that you must renounce the idea of marrying my cousin Nicette to Monsieur Capdenac."
"What do you say?"
"You must renounce that project."
"Never, Monsieur!—never!"
"Don't fly in the face of Providence by using such language!"
"My resolution is fixed, Monsieur; this marriage will take place."
"It will not, Monsieur! "
"We will see about that. And, now that you have had my answer, Monsieur, I'll not detain you."
"A speech none too polite, Monsieur Bouvard; but, as I am as good-natured as I am tenacious, I will pass over it, and—remain."
"Stay if it pleases you to do so; but I shall consider you gone, and hold no further conversation with you."
Saying which Monsieur Bouvard turned his face to the wall, grumbling to himself—
"Was ever such a thing seen!—rousing a man at such an hour!—breaking his sleep, only to pour into his ears such a pack of nonsense!—"
Suddenly Monsieur Bouvard sprang to a sitting posture in his bed.
Anatole had possessed himself the professor's trombone, into which he was blowing like a deaf man, and sending from the tortured instrument sounds of indescribable detestableness.
"My presentation trombone!—given me by my pupils! Let that instrument alone, Monsieur!"
"Monsieur, you consider me gone; I shall consider you—absent, and shall amuse myself until you return. Couac! couac!—fromn! brout! Eh?—that was a fine note!"
"You will get me turned out of the house; my landlord will not allow a trombone to be played here after midnight."
"A man who evidently hath not music in his soul! Frrout! frrout, prrr!"
"You will split my ears!—you'll spoil my instrument!—a trombone badly played on is a trombone destroyed, Monsieur!"
"Couac! prounn, pra—pra—prrrr—"
"For mercy's sake give over!"
"Will you consent?"
"To what?"
"To renounce the idea of that marriage?"
"Monsieur, I cannot!"
"Then—couac!—"
"Monsieur Capdenac—"
"Prrrroum!—"
"Is a terrible man to deal with!"
"Frrroutt!—"
"'Prroum!'"
"If I were to offer him such an affront, he would kill me."
"Is that the only reason which stops you?"
"That—and several others."
"In that case leave the matter to me; only swear to me that if I obtain Monsieur Capdenac's renunciation, my cousin shall be free to choose a husband for herself."
"Really, Monsieur, you abuse—"
"Couac, frrroutt, ffuit, brrrout!—"
"Monsieur, Monsieur,—she shall be free."
"Bravo! I have your word. Will you now allow me to retire? By the way, where does your Capdenac live?"
"Number 100, Rue des Deux-Epées."
"I fly thither!—Until we meet again!"
"You are going to throw yourself into the lion's mouth, and he will teach you a lesson you deserve," said Monsieur Bouvard, as Anatole hurried from the bedchamber and shut the door after him.
Without a moment's hesitation Anatole betook himself to the address of the fire-eating fencer; it was just six o'clock when he arrived there. He rang the door-bell.
"Who is there?" demanded a rough voice behind the door.
"Open!—very important communication from Monsieur Bouvard."
The sounds of a night-chain and the turning of a key in a heavy lock were heard.
"Here is a man who does not forget to protect himself against unwelcome visitors!" remarked Anatole to himself.
The door opened at length. Anatole found himself in the presence of a gentleman with a moustache fiercely upturned, whose night-dress appeared to be the complete costume of the fencing school.
"You see, always ready; it's my motto."
The walls of the swordsman's antechamber were completely covered with panoplies of arms of all descriptions; yatagans, poisoned arrows, sabres, rapiers, one and two-handed swords, pistols—a regular arsenal—enough to terrify any timid-minded observer.
"Bah!" thought Anatole, "what do I now risk!—at most two hours and-a-half!"
"Monsieur," said Capdenac, "may I be allowed to know———"
"Monsieur," replied Anatole, "you want to marry Mademoiselle Nicette?"
"Yes, Monsieur.'
"Monsieur, you will not marry her!"
"Ah! thunder!—blood! who will prevent me?"
"I shall, Monsieur!"
Capdenac stared at Anatole, who was not very big, but appeared to be very decided.
"Ah!—young man, you are very lucky to have found me in one of my placable moments. Take advantage of it—save yourself while you have time; otherwise I will not answer for your days!
"Nor I for yours."
"A challenge!—to me!—Capdenac!—Do you know that I have been a master of the art of fencing for ten years!"
"There's nothing of-fencive about me, Monsieur!"
"I have fought twenty duels—and had the misfortune to kill five of my adversaries, besides wounding the fifteen others! Come, I have taken pity on your youth!—once more, go away."
"I see, by your preparations, that you are an adversary worthy of me and my long growing desire to confront a man so redoubtable. Let's see! what shall we fight with? Those two double-handed swords standing by the fireplace? Or those two boarding axes? With cavalry sabres, or would you prefer a pair of curved yatagans? You hesitate: can't you make up your mind?"
"I am thinking of your mother and her coming distress."
"I haven't a mother to be distressed. Would you rather fight with a carbine?—pistol?—or revolver?"
"Young man, don't play with firearms."
"Young man—don't play with firearms."
"Are you afraid? You are trembling! "
"Trembling! I? It's with cold."
"Then fight, or at once renounce the hand of Nicette."
"Renounce the hand of Mademoiselle Nicette! By Jove, I admire your bravery! and brave men are made to understand one another. Shall I make a confession to you?"
"Speak! "
"For some time past I have myself had thoughts of breaking off this marriage, but I did not know how to do it. I consent, therefore, with pleasure to do what you wish; but, at the same time you must see that I cannot appear to give way to threats, and you have threatened me."
"I retract them."
"In that case, all is understood."
"You will give me, in writing, your renunciation?"
"Young man, you have so completely won my sympathy that I can refuse you nothing."
Furnished with the precious document, Anatole flew back to the dwelling-place of Monsieur Bouvard: he had a considerable distance to walk, and by the time he reached the professor's door it was nearly eight o'clock in the morning.
"Who is there?"
"Anatole."
"Go home, and go to bed!" cried the professor savagely.
"I have got Capdenac's renunciation of Nicette's hand! Open the door, or I will break it down."
Monsieur Bouvard admitted him, and Anatole placed in his hand the momentous paper. That done, he rushed to the door of Nicette's room and cried—
"Cousin, get up—dress yourself quickly and come here!"
"It appears, Monsieur, that I am no longer master in my own home!" exclaimed Monsieur Bouvard; "you go and come, and order as you please! To make you understand that I will have nothing more to say to you, I—I will go back to my morning newspaper, in the reading of which you have interrupted me!"
A few minutes later, Nicette, looking fresh as dawn, arrived in the drawing-room.
"What is the matter?"
"The matter," said Monsieur Bouvard, "is that your cousin is mad!"
"Mad? So be it!" replied Anatole. "Last night, my dear little cousin, I obtained two things: the renunciation of your hand by Monsieur Capdenac, and the promise of your worthy guardian to bestow it on the man of your choice—the man you love."
"Do you really wish me to marry Anatole, guardian?
"Eh?" cried Anatole, his breath nearly possible!"
"Since I love you, cousin! "
At that moment Anatole felt his heart beat violently. Was it from pleasure at the unexpected avowal made by Nicette, or was it the agony, the death symptom predicted by the doctor?
"Unfortunate that I am!" he cried. "She loves me—I am within reach of happiness, and am to die without attaining it!"
Then, taking the hands of Nicette feverishly within his own, he told her all about the letter, the venomous flower he had scented, the prognostication of his old friend, the will he had written, and the steps he had successfully taken to release her from the claim of Capdenac.
"And now," he said, in conclusion, "I have only to go home and die!"
"But it is impossible!" cried Nicette. "This doctor must have mistaken; who is he?"
"A man who is never in error, Nicette—Dr. Bardais."
"Bardais! Bardais!" cried Bouvard, bursting into laughter. "Listen to what my newspaper here says: 'The learned Dr. Bardais has been suddenly seized with mental alienation. The madness with which he has been stricken is of a scientific character. It is well known that he was absorbingly engaged in an inquiry into the nature of venomous substances, and latterly he had fallen into the delusion that everybody he met was under the influence of poison, and endeavoured to persuade them that such was their condition. He was last night transported to the Maison de Santé of Dr. Blank."
"Nicette!"
"Anatole!"
The two young persons fell into each other's arms.
