CHAPTER X.

DR JOHN.

Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all the world, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into no deviation¹ from the even tenor² of her stoic³ calm. She was solicitous⁴ about her family, vigilant⁵ for their interests and physical well-being⁶; but she never seemed to know the wish to take her little children upon her lap, to press their rosy⁷ lips with her own, to gather them in a genial⁸ embrace, to shower on them softly the benignant caress⁹, the loving word.

I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, viewing the little bees afar off, as they walked in a distant alley¹⁰ with Trinette, their bonne; in her mien¹¹ spoke¹² care and prudence¹³. I know she often pondered anxiously what she called “leur avenir;” but if the youngest, a puny¹⁴ and delicate but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from its nurse, and toddling¹⁵ down the walk, came all eager and laughing and panting to clasp her knee, Madame would just calmly put out one hand, so as to prevent inconvenient¹⁶ concussion¹⁷ from the child’s sudden onset¹⁸: “Prends garde, mon enfant!” she would say unmoved, patiently permit it to stand near her a few moments, and then, without smile or kiss, or endearing syllable¹⁹, rise and lead it back to Trinette.

Her demeanour to the eldest²⁰ girl was equally characteristic in another way. This was a vicious child. “Quelle peste que cette Désirée! Quel poison que cet enfant là!” were the expressions dedicated²¹ to her, alike in kitchen and in schoolroom. Amongst her other endowments she boasted an exquisite²² skill in the art, of provocation²³, sometimes driving her bonne and the servants almost wild. She would steal to their attics²⁴, open their drawers and boxes, wantonly tear their best caps and soil their best shawls; she would watch her opportunity to get at the buffet²⁵ of the salle-à-manger, where she would smash articles of porcelain²⁶ or glass—or to the cupboard of the storeroom, where she would plunder²⁷ the preserves, drink the sweet wine, break jars and bottles, and so contrive²⁸ as to throw the onus²⁹ of suspicion on the cook and the kitchen-maid. All this when Madame saw, and of which when she received report, her sole observation, uttered with matchless serenity³⁰, was:

“Désirée a besoin d’une surveillance toute particulière.” Accordingly she kept this promising³² olive-branch a good deal at her side. Never once, I believe, did she tell her faithfully of her faults, explain the evil of such habits, and show the results which must thence ensue. Surveillance must work the whole cure. It failed of course. Désirée was kept in some measure from the servants, but she teased and pillaged³³ her mamma instead. Whatever belonging to Madame’s work-table or toilet she could lay her hands on, she stole and hid. Madame saw all this, but she still pretended not to see: she had not rectitude of soul to confront the child with her vices³⁴. When an article disappeared whose value rendered restitution³⁵ necessary, she would profess³⁶ to think that Désirée had taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. Désirée was not to be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehood to the aid of theft, and would deny having touched the brooch, ring, or scissors. Carrying on the hollow system, the mother would calmly assume an air of belief, and afterwards ceaselessly watch and dog the child till she tracked her: to her hiding-places—some hole in the garden-wall—some chink or cranny in garret or out-house. This done, Madame would send Désirée out for a walk with her bonne, and profit by her absence to rob the robber. Désirée proved herself the true daughter of her astute³⁸ parent, by never suffering either her countenance³⁹ or manner to betray the least sign of mortification⁴⁰ on discovering the loss.

The second child, Fifine, was said to be like its dead father. Certainly, though the mother had given it her healthy frame, her blue eye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived⁴¹ its moral being. It was an honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate⁴², warm-tempered, bustling⁴³ creature it was too, and of the sort likely to blunder often into perils⁴⁴ and difficulties. One day it bethought itself to fall from top to bottom of a steep flight of stone steps; and when Madame, hearing the noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the salle-à-manger and picked it up, she said quietly,—“Cet enfant a un os de cassé.”

At first we hoped this was not the case. It was, however, but too true: one little plump arm hung powerless.

“Let Meess” (meaning me) “take her,” said Madame; “et qu’on aille tout³¹ de suite⁴⁵ chercher un fiacre.”

In a fiacre she promptly⁴⁶, but with admirable coolness and self-possession, departed to fetch a surgeon.

It appeared she did not find the family-surgeon at home; but that mattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute to her mind, and brought him back with her. Meantime I had cut the child’s sleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed.

We none of us, I suppose (by we I mean the bonne, the cook, the portress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in the small and heated chamber⁴⁷), looked very scrutinizingly at the new doctor when he came into the room. I, at least, was taken up with endeavouring to soothe⁴⁸ Fifine; whose cries (for she had good lungs) were appalling⁴⁹ to hear. These cries redoubled in intensity⁵⁰ as the stranger approached her bed; when he took her up, “Let alone!” she cried passionately⁵¹, in her broken English (for she spoke English as did the other children). “I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!”

“And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend,” was the answer, in perfect English; “but he is busy at a place three leagues off, and I am come in his stead. So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commence business; and we will soon have that unlucky little arm bandaged and in right order.”

Hereupon he called for a glass of eau sucrée, fed her with some teaspoonfuls of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank gourmande; anybody could win her heart through her palate), promised her more when the operation should be over, and promptly went to work. Some assistance being needed, he demanded it of the cook, a robust⁵², strong-armed woman; but she, the portress, and the nurse instantly fled. I did not like to touch that small, tortured limb, but thinking there was no alternative, my hand was already extended to do what was requisite⁵³. I was anticipated; Madame Beck had put out her own hand: hers was steady while mine trembled.

“Ca vaudra mieux,” said the doctor, turning from me to her.

He showed wisdom in his choice. Mine would have been feigned⁵⁴ stoicism, forced fortitude⁵⁵. Hers was neither forced nor feigned.

“Merci, Madame; très bien, fort bien!” said the operator when he had finished. “Voilà un sang-froid bien opportun, et qui vaut mille élans de sensibilité déplacée.”

He was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment. It was likely, too, that his whole general appearance, his voice, mien, and manner, wrought⁵⁶ impressions in his favour. Indeed, when you looked well at him, and when a lamp was brought in—for it was evening and now waxing dusk—you saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less than woman, it could not well be otherwise. This young doctor (he was young) had no common aspect. His stature⁵⁷ looked imposingly⁵⁸ tall in that little chamber, and amidst that group of Dutch-made women; his profile was clear, fine and expressive⁵⁹: perhaps his eye glanced from face to face rather too vividly⁶⁰, too quickly, and too often; but it had a most pleasant character, and so had his mouth; his chin was full, cleft⁶¹, Grecian, and perfect. As to his smile, one could not in a hurry make up one’s mind as to the descriptive epithet⁶² it merited; there was something in it that pleased, but something too that brought surging up into the mind all one’s foibles and weak points: all that could lay one open to a laugh. Yet Fifine liked this doubtful smile, and thought the owner genial: much as he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him a friendly good-night. He patted the little hand kindly⁶³, and then he and Madame went down-stairs together; she talking in her highest tide of spirits and volubility, he listening with an air of good-natured amenity⁶⁴, dashed with that unconscious roguish archness I find it difficult to describe.

I noticed that though he spoke French well, he spoke English better; he had, too, an English complexion⁶⁵, eyes, and form. I noticed more. As he passed me in leaving the room, turning his face in my direction one moment—not to address me, but to speak to Madame, yet so standing⁶⁶, that I almost necessarily looked up at him—a recollection which had been struggling to form in my memory, since the first moment I heard his voice, started up perfected. This was the very gentleman to whom I had spoken at the bureau; who had helped me in the matter of the trunk; who had been my guide through the dark, wet park. Listening, as he passed down the long vestibule out into the street, I recognised his very tread: it was the same firm and equal stride I had followed under the dripping trees.

It was to be concluded that this young surgeon-physician’s first visit to the Rue³⁷ Fossette would be the last. The respectable Dr. Pillule being expected home the next day, there appeared no reason why his temporary substitute should again represent him; but the Fates had written their decree to the contrary.

Dr. Pillule had been summoned to see a rich old hypochondriac at the antique university town of Bouquin-Moisi, and upon his prescribing change of air and travel as remedies, he was retained to accompany the timid patient on a tour of some weeks; it but remained, therefore, for the new doctor to continue his attendance at the Rue Fossette.

I often saw him when he came; for Madame would not trust the little invalid⁶⁸ to Trinette, but required me to spend much of my time in the nursery. I think he was skilful⁶⁹. Fifine recovered rapidly under his care, yet even her convalescence⁷⁰ did not hasten his dismissal. Destiny and Madame Beck seemed in league, and both had ruled that he should make deliberate acquaintance with the vestibule, the private staircase and upper chambers⁷¹ of the Rue Fossette.

No sooner did Fifine emerge from his hands than Désirée declared herself ill. That possessed⁷² child had a genius for simulation, and captivated by the attentions and indulgences of a sick-room, she came to the conclusion that an illness would perfectly⁷³ accommodate her tastes, and took her bed accordingly. She acted well, and her mother still better; for while the whole case was transparent⁷⁴ to Madame Beck as the day, she treated it with an astonishingly well-assured air of gravity and good faith.

What surprised me was, that Dr. John (so the young Englishman had taught Fifine to call him, and we all took from her the habit of addressing him by this name, till it became an established custom, and he was known by no other in the Rue Fossette)—that Dr. John consented tacitly to adopt Madame’s tactics, and to fall in with her manœuvres. He betrayed, indeed, a period of comic doubt, cast one or two rapid glances from the child to the mother, indulged in an interval⁷⁵ of self-consultation, but finally resigned himself with a good grace to play his part in the farce⁷⁶. Désirée eat like a raven⁷⁷, gambolled⁷⁸ day and night in her bed, pitched tents with the sheets and blankets, lounged like a Turk amidst pillows and bolsters⁷⁹, diverted herself with throwing her shoes at her bonne and grimacing⁸⁰ at her sisters—over-flowed, in short, with unmerited health and evil spirits; only languishing⁸¹ when her mamma and the physician paid their diurnal⁸² visit. Madame Beck, I knew, was glad, at any price, to have her daughter in bed out of the way of mischief⁸³; but I wondered that Dr. John did not tire of the business.

Every day, on this mere⁸⁴ pretext⁸⁵ of a motive⁸⁶, he gave punctual attendance; Madame always received him with the same empressement, the same sunshine for himself, the same admirably counterfeited⁸⁷ air of concern for her child. Dr. John wrote harmless prescriptions⁸⁸ for the patient, and viewed her mother with a shrewdly sparkling eye. Madame caught his rallying looks without resenting them—she had too much good sense for that. Supple⁸⁹ as the young doctor seemed, one could not despise him—this pliant⁹⁰ part was evidently not adopted in the design to curry⁹¹ favour with his employer: while he liked his office at the pensionnat, and lingered strangely about the Rue Fossette, he was independent, almost careless in his carriage there; and yet, too, he was often thoughtful and preoccupied⁹².

It was not perhaps my business to observe the mystery of his bearing, or search out its origin or aim; but, placed as I was, I could hardly help it. He laid himself open to my observation, according to my presence in the room just that degree of notice and consequence⁹³ a person of my exterior⁹⁴ habitually⁹⁵ expects: that is to say, about what is given to unobtrusive articles of furniture, chairs of ordinary joiner’s work, and carpets of no striking pattern. Often, while waiting for Madame, he would muse⁹⁶, smile, watch, or listen like a man who thinks himself alone. I, meantime, was free to puzzle over his countenance and movements, and wonder what could be the meaning of that peculiar⁹⁷ interest and attachment—all mixed up with doubt and strangeness, and inexplicably⁹⁸ ruled by some presiding spell—which wedded⁹⁹ him to this demi-convent, secluded¹⁰⁰ in the built-up core of a capital. He, I believe, never remembered that I had eyes in my head, much less a brain behind them.

Nor would he ever have found this out, but that one day, while he sat in the sunshine and I was observing the colouring of his hair, whiskers, and complexion—the whole being of such a tone as a strong light brings out with somewhat perilous¹⁰¹ force (indeed I recollect⁶⁷ I was driven to compare his beamy head in my thoughts to that of the “golden image” which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up), an idea new, sudden, and startling, riveted¹⁰² my attention with an over-mastering strength and power of attraction. I know not to this day how I looked at him: the force of surprise, and also of conviction, made me forget myself; and I only recovered wonted consciousness when I saw that his notice was arrested, and that it had caught my movement in a clear little oval mirror fixed¹⁰³ in the side of the window recess—by the aid of which reflector Madame often secretly spied persons walking in the garden below. Though of so gay and sanguine¹⁰⁴ a temperament¹⁰⁵, he was not without a certain nervous sensitiveness which made him ill at ease under a direct, inquiring gaze. On surprising me thus, he turned and said, in a tone which, though courteous¹⁰⁶, had just so much dryness in it as to mark a shade of annoyance¹⁰⁷, as well as to give to what was said the character of rebuke¹⁰⁸, “Mademoiselle does not spare me: I am not vain enough to fancy that it is my merits which attract her attention; it must then be some defect. Dare I ask—what?”

I was confounded, as the reader may suppose, yet not with an irrecoverable confusion; being conscious that it was from no emotion of incautious admiration¹⁰⁹, nor yet in a spirit of unjustifiable inquisitiveness¹¹⁰, that I had incurred¹¹¹ this reproof¹¹². I might have cleared myself on the spot, but would not. I did not speak. I was not in the habit of speaking to him. Suffering him, then, to think what he chose and accuse me of what he would, I resumed some work I had dropped, and kept my head bent¹¹³ over it during the remainder of his stay. There is a perverse¹¹⁴ mood of the mind which is rather soothed¹¹⁵ than irritated by misconstruction; and in quarters where we can never be rightly known, we take pleasure, I think, in being consummately¹¹⁶ ignored. What honest man, on being casually¹¹⁷ taken for a housebreaker, does not feel rather tickled¹¹⁸ than vexed¹¹⁹ at the mistake?