“O my light-bearer! O my path-preparer!
Gone from me, gone from me!
I cannot kindle underneath the brow
Of this new angel here that is not thou;
I am cold, I am slow!”
GERARD started as if awakened from a dream, when the door of the waiting room was opened. There entered, not the long-expected Gebelin de Court, but a tall and slender youth clad in deep mourning. So greatly was Gustave Adolphe Bairdon changed by his long illness, by the thought it had awakened, and the sorrow that had followed it, that it took Gerard some moments to recognize, in the pale intellectual-looking young man, the sprightly mischievous urchin whose life he had saved two years ago. The deformity also was no longer noticeable, as Griselle had predicted.
But at last convinced that it was Gustave, Gerard sprang forward to embrace him. To his increased amazement, his former pupil and admirer drew back haughtily, and stood gazing at him, hatred and disdain written on his countenance. And before an explanation was possible, Gebelin de Court made his appearance.
The savant shook hands warmly with the two strangers, who appeared to be old and valued friends, and invited them into another apartment; briefly excusing himself to “ces jeunes messieurs,” Gerard and Gustave, whom he seemed to take for their companions. At another time Gerard would have noticed with interest that he called the younger of the two strangers M. Rabaut, a name not quite unknown to him. But it was evident that M. Pelletier’s note of introduction had been overlooked, and before there was time for Gerard to make himself known, even had his agitation allowed him to do so, the door had closed again, and he stood alone with Gustave Adolphe Bairdon.
“What is the matter, Gustave? What has happened?” he questioned, more alarmed by the lad’s mourning dress than surprised by his strangely repellent manner.
It might have saved untold sorrow if Gustave had but answered plainly, “Ere I came hither I had an interview with your friend Jules Prosper, and he told me that which changes my old love for you into scorn and hatred.” But, though altered in much, some effects of his training in the maxims of the Jesuits were not yet eradicated from the character of Gustave. That “a straight line is the shortest way” is a lesson hand to learn at all if it be not learned in childhood. He answered with an air of hauteur, “Nothing that concerns you, monsieur.”
“What has happened?” Gerard reiterated in an agony. “Speak, for Heaven’s sake, Gustave! Do you not know how you torture me?”
But Gustave stood silent. Scorn and anger passed gradually from his face, and a deep sadness came instead. That look made Gerard’s heart groom sick and faint. “Mademoiselle―your sister?” he faltered.
“My sister―is―dead,” Gustave said, dropping the words slowly from scarce opened lips.
“Dead?”
“She is dead, M. Gerard.”
“It is false!” cried Gerard, with white lips. “Do you dare tell me―” His utterance was choked, but he seized Gustave’s arm, and unconsciously pressed it until a cry escaped the boy.
“Let me go,” he said, struggling in that fierce grasp.
“What is it to you? You were not worthy of her; now you have lost her. I tell you again my sister is dead. Can’t you see my dress?”
Gerard loosed his hold, looking himself like one wounded to death. But as a dying man automatically performs some accustomed movement, he murmured, “I beg your pardon,” with a dim consciousness that he had inflicted pain. And before Gustave could answer or explain, he was gone and the door was closed behind him.
The business that brought Gustave to the house of Gebelin de Court was simple. It was merely to deliver into the hands of the protector of the Protestants a packet of letters, entrusted to him by a fellow traveler who had shown him kindness on his journey. This was a service very frequently asked and rendered; nor was it by any means an unimportant one in days when the public post, as a mode of conveyance, was obviously unsafe.
But it was with a heart full of anxious misgiving that he returned to his home, a home now the abode of sorrow and mourning. “I have told the truth,” he murmured to himself once and again. “Nothing but the truth. And well he deserves it. Let Mademoiselle de Lioncourt console him if she can. Scélérat!”