ascertain certain particulars for myself. I am accustomed to this sort of inquiry; and my call is sure to be of use to her.”
Gabriel examined the visitor for a moment, reflected and said:
“In that case, I suppose my aunt will consent … Pray come in.”
He opened the door of the dining-room and stepped back to allow the other to pass. The stranger walked to the threshold, but, at the moment when he was crossing it, Gabriel raised his arm and, with a swift movement, struck him with a dagger over the right shoulder.
A burst of laughter rang through the room:
“Got him!” cried Mme. Dugrival, darting up from her chair. “Well done, Gabriel! But, I say, you haven’t killed the scoundrel, have you?”
“I don’t think so, aunt. It’s a small blade and I didn’t strike him too hard.”
The man was staggering, with his hands stretched in front of him and his face deathly pale.
“You fool!” sneered the widow. “So you’ve fallen into the trap … and a good job too! We’ve been looking out for you a long time. Come, my fine fellow, down with you! You don’t care about it, do you? But you can’t help yourself, you see. That’s right: one knee on the ground, before the missus … now the other knee … How well we’ve been brought up! … Crash, there we go on the floor! Lord, if my poor Dugrival could only see him like that! … And now, Gabriel, to work!”
She went to her bedroom and opened one of the doors of a hanging wardrobe filled with dresses. Pulling these aside, she pushed open another door which formed the back of the wardrobe and led to a room in the next house:
“Help me carry him, Gabriel. And you’ll nurse him as well as you can, won’t you? For the present, he’s worth his weight in gold to us, the artist! …”
The hours succeeded one another. Days passed.
One morning, the wounded man regained a moment’s consciousness. He raised his eyelids and looked around him.
He was lying in a room larger than that in which he had been stabbed, a room sparsely furnished, with thick curtains hanging before the windows from top to bottom. There was light enough, however, to enable him to see young Gabriel Dugrival seated on a chair beside him and watching him.
“Ah, it’s you, youngster!” he murmured. “I congratulate you, my lad. You have a sure and pretty touch with the dagger.”
And he fell asleep again.
That day and the following days, he woke up several times and, each time, he saw the stripling’s pale face, his thin lips and his dark eyes, with the hard look in them:
“You frighten me,” he said. “If you have sworn to do for me, don’t stand on ceremony. But cheer up, for goodness’ sake. The thought of death has always struck me as the most humorous thing in the world. Whereas, with you, old chap, it simply becomes lugubrious. I prefer to go to sleep. Good-night!”
Still, Gabriel, in obedience to Mme. Dugrival’s orders, continued to nurse him with the utmost care and attention. The patient was almost free from fever and was beginning to take beef-tea and milk. He gained a little strength and jested:
“When will the convalescent be allowed his first drive? Is the bath-chair there? Why, cheer up, stupid! You look like a weeping-willow contemplating a crime. Come, just one little smile for daddy!”
One day, on waking, he had a very unpleasant feeling of constraint. After a few efforts, he perceived that, during his sleep, his legs, chest and arms had been fastened to the bedstead with thin wire strands that cut into his flesh at the least movements.
“Ah,” he said to his keeper, “this time it’s the great performance! The chicken’s going to be bled. Are you operating, Angel Gabriel? If so, see that your razor’s nice and clean, old chap! The antiseptic treatment, if you please!”
But he was interrupted by the sound of a key grating in the lock. The door opposite opened and Mme. Dugrival appeared.
She approached slowly, took a chair and, producing a
Gabriel examined the visitor for a moment, reflected and said:
“In that case, I suppose my aunt will consent … Pray come in.”
He opened the door of the dining-room and stepped back to allow the other to pass. The stranger walked to the threshold, but, at the moment when he was crossing it, Gabriel raised his arm and, with a swift movement, struck him with a dagger over the right shoulder.
A burst of laughter rang through the room:
“Got him!” cried Mme. Dugrival, darting up from her chair. “Well done, Gabriel! But, I say, you haven’t killed the scoundrel, have you?”
“I don’t think so, aunt. It’s a small blade and I didn’t strike him too hard.”
The man was staggering, with his hands stretched in front of him and his face deathly pale.
“You fool!” sneered the widow. “So you’ve fallen into the trap … and a good job too! We’ve been looking out for you a long time. Come, my fine fellow, down with you! You don’t care about it, do you? But you can’t help yourself, you see. That’s right: one knee on the ground, before the missus … now the other knee … How well we’ve been brought up! … Crash, there we go on the floor! Lord, if my poor Dugrival could only see him like that! … And now, Gabriel, to work!”
She went to her bedroom and opened one of the doors of a hanging wardrobe filled with dresses. Pulling these aside, she pushed open another door which formed the back of the wardrobe and led to a room in the next house:
“Help me carry him, Gabriel. And you’ll nurse him as well as you can, won’t you? For the present, he’s worth his weight in gold to us, the artist! …”
The hours succeeded one another. Days passed.
One morning, the wounded man regained a moment’s consciousness. He raised his eyelids and looked around him.
He was lying in a room larger than that in which he had been stabbed, a room sparsely furnished, with thick curtains hanging before the windows from top to bottom. There was light enough, however, to enable him to see young Gabriel Dugrival seated on a chair beside him and watching him.
“Ah, it’s you, youngster!” he murmured. “I congratulate you, my lad. You have a sure and pretty touch with the dagger.”
And he fell asleep again.
That day and the following days, he woke up several times and, each time, he saw the stripling’s pale face, his thin lips and his dark eyes, with the hard look in them:
“You frighten me,” he said. “If you have sworn to do for me, don’t stand on ceremony. But cheer up, for goodness’ sake. The thought of death has always struck me as the most humorous thing in the world. Whereas, with you, old chap, it simply becomes lugubrious. I prefer to go to sleep. Good-night!”
Still, Gabriel, in obedience to Mme. Dugrival’s orders, continued to nurse him with the utmost care and attention. The patient was almost free from fever and was beginning to take beef-tea and milk. He gained a little strength and jested:
“When will the convalescent be allowed his first drive? Is the bath-chair there? Why, cheer up, stupid! You look like a weeping-willow contemplating a crime. Come, just one little smile for daddy!”
One day, on waking, he had a very unpleasant feeling of constraint. After a few efforts, he perceived that, during his sleep, his legs, chest and arms had been fastened to the bedstead with thin wire strands that cut into his flesh at the least movements.
“Ah,” he said to his keeper, “this time it’s the great performance! The chicken’s going to be bled. Are you operating, Angel Gabriel? If so, see that your razor’s nice and clean, old chap! The antiseptic treatment, if you please!”
But he was interrupted by the sound of a key grating in the lock. The door opposite opened and Mme. Dugrival appeared.
She approached slowly, took a chair and, producing a
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