The Old Love.
“I don’t like that woman, old fellow,” were the first words Dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.
“Why not?” I asked, rather surprised. “The Countess de Foville is always charming.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. This is one of mine.”
“And Yolande,” I asked, “what of her?”
“She’s better. But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I did, or she would no doubt have passed away. I never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I’d have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life.”
“But what was the cause of it all?” I demanded. “You surely know the reason?”
“No, we cannot yet tell,” he answered. “The marks puzzle us. That mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. At present we can say nothing.”
“Then why did you call me out?”
“Because I want to consult you,” he replied. “The fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which I don’t like at all. And, moreover, the few seconds during which I’ve seen the Countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth.”
I nodded. This was exactly my own theory. “Do you think Yolande has been the victim of foul play?” I inquired a moment later.
“That’s my suspicion,” he responded. “But only she herself can tell us the truth.”
“You really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?” I cried incredulously.
“Personally, I think there can be no doubt.”
“But by whom? No one called here after my departure.”
“It is that mystery which we must elucidate,” he said. “All I fear is, however, that she may render us no assistance.”
“Why?”
“Because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to preserve the secret. She must not see the Countess before we question her.”
“Is she yet conscious?” I asked in eagerness.
“Yes; but at present we must put no question to her.”
“Thank Heaven!” I gasped. Then I added, fervently grasping my friend’s hand: “You cannot realise, Dick, what great consolation this is to me!”
“I know, my dear fellow—I know,” he answered sympathetically. “But may I speak to you as a friend? You won’t be offended at anything I am about to say, will you?”
“Offended?—certainly not. Our friendship is too firm for that, Dick. What is it you wish to say?”
I saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity.
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think that in this affair you’ve told me exactly the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired quickly.
“I mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not altogether good friends.”
“You are mistaken,” I assured him. “We were as good friends as ever before.”
“No high words passed between you?”
“None.”
“And nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief? Are you quite certain of this?” he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his glasses.
“I made one observation which certainly caused her surprise,” I admitted. “Nothing else.”
“Was it only surprise?” he asked very calmly.
“Surprise mingled with fear.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this admission of mine. “And may I not know the nature of the information you gave her?”
“No, Dick,” I responded. “It is a secret—her secret.”
He was silent.
“You refuse to tell me?” he said disappointedly.
“I am unable,” I replied.
“And if I judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?”
“No, it is not,” I answered. “That’s the most curious part of the whole affair. The very existence of the secret has brought us together again.”
“You mean that you have forsaken Edith and returned to her?” he observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise.
“No; don’t put it in that way,” I implored. “I have not yet forsaken Edith.”
He smiled, just a trifle superciliously, I thought.
“And the Countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret—eh?”
“Of that I am not at all certain,” I replied.
He sniffed in distinct suspicion that what I had told him was not the truth. At the same instant, however, the Countess entered and demanded to know the condition of her child.
“She is much better, madame,” he answered. “Perfect quiet is, however, necessary, and constant observation of the temperature. To-morrow, or the day after, you may, I think, see her.”
“Not till then!” she cried. “I cannot wait so long.”
“But it is necessary. Your daughter’s life hangs upon a single thread.”
She was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless.
A few minutes later Jean entered with a message from Trépard asking Dick and myself to consult with him. We therefore left the Countess again, and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago was lying. As we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of recognition, and in an instant I was at her side.
“Yolande!” I cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had been defeated by life. “Yolande! my darling,” I burst forth involuntarily, “you have come back to me!”
A sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked:
“Gerald, is it actually you?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course it is. These two gentlemen are doctors,” I added. “This is my old friend Deane; and the other is Doctor Trépard, of whom I daresay you have heard.”
She nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions; then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her. She seemed in utter ignorance of it all.
“You were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after I left, and they thought you were dead,” I explained. “Cannot you tell us how it occurred?”
A puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to remember.
“I recollect nothing,” she declared.
“But you surely remember how you were attacked?” I urged.
“Attacked!” she echoed in surprise. “No one attacked me.”
“I