And on this hot July noon the train which was bringing Pierre was drawing nearer to Paris, and Mère Marchette lay so still that she seemed scarcely to breathe, – so still that one might fancy she would not even think, lest in so doing she exhaust some precious grain of strength and so should die without the blessing of that last embrace.
III
Whoever keeps himself informed of the course of modern scientific investigations is likely to be aware that during the last decade especial attention has been given at the Salpêtrière to that strange physical or psychical force known as hypnotism. M. Charcot, chief of the school of the Salpêtrière, has particularly distinguished himself by his researches. Attacked at first by his professional brethren, it has been his good fortune to live to see the scientific value of hypnotism acknowledged, and to be triumphantly readmitted to the Academy of Sciences, which had at first stigmatized his investigations as mere charlatanism. Charles Féré, an assistant physician at the Salpêtrière, with Richer, Bourneville, and nearly a score other distinguished men, have pursued their investigations with great zeal and thoroughness, and have produced a valuable literature devoted to this intricate subject.
It will be easily understood that all the physicians at the Salpêtrière, and especially the younger men, could not fail to be deeply interested in this new and fascinating branch of science. The facts upon which had been founded the theories of mesmerism, animal magnetism, and other shadowy systems were reduced to order and scientifically tested. M. Charcot and his associates worked with much care and thoroughness, and, without being able to solve the mystery of the force with which they dealt, they proved its value as a therapeutic agent. In the cure of nervous diseases, and in dealing with hysterical patients, they obtained remarkable and satisfactory results. They were even able to alleviate suffering by simply assuring the patient, while in a hypnotic sleep, that he would be free from pain on waking.
To the outside observer no feature of this strange power is more remarkable than the influence the hypnotist may exert over his subject after the trance is broken. A hypnotized person may be told to perform any act on awaking, and, when seemingly restored to his normal condition, bears the impress of that command so strongly that he is urged to obey it by an irresistible impulse. It is quite as easy, moreover, to foist upon the patients the most extraordinary delusions. The subject is told that upon awaking a bottle will seem to be a lamp, a blank card a picture, or any other deception which comes into the mind of the hypnotist; and so perfect is the working of this mysterious and terrible law that the delusion is accomplished to its minutest details.
Dr. Lommel, like all his young confrères, had become intensely interested in all these researches, so like a scientific realization of the fairy tales of the Orient. He had even tried some experiments on his own account; and when the sufferings of Mère Marchette became pitifully intense he had ventured to attempt the substitution of hypnotism for opiates in relieving her distress. The old woman had not easily yielded to this influence. Susceptibility to hypnotism is more apt to be found in hysterical or nervously sensitive subjects than in such sturdy characters. By degrees, however, Dr. Lommel established control over her. In the end, to throw her into a hypnotic sleep he had only to hold his forefinger an inch or two from her forehead, so that her eyes in looking at it turned upward and inward a little. He did not experiment with Mère Marchette; he felt too tenderly toward the old woman to make her the subject of scientific investigation outside of the direct line of treatment. He simply said, “When you awaken you will be free from pain, Mère Marchette;” then he would breathe lightly on her forehead and the sick woman would awaken, to lie as peaceful and painless as if no terrible disease was gnawing like a tiger at her vitals.
The case had attracted a good deal of attention at the Salpêtrière, and although Mère Marchette was utterly ignorant of it, her sick-bed was a point of interest toward which were turned the thoughts of physicians over half of Europe. The unlearned peasant, to whom the simplest terms of science would have been unintelligible, was furnishing data for future scientific treatises; and people of whose very existence she was unaware read the daily bulletins of her condition with closest eagerness.
IV
It was a few minutes after twelve o’clock when Dr. Lommel reentered the ward. Mère Marchette lay apparently sleeping, but as he approached her bedside the old eyes opened with a piercing and eager question. The young man shook his head, smiling tenderly.
“Not quite yet, Mère Marchette,” he said; “there are still some minutes to wait.”
He sat down beside the bed and laid his fingers on her wrist. The pulse was so faint that he could scarcely feel it, but it was steady. For some minutes he remained quiet, with his eyes fixed on the poor old face before him. There came into his mind the thought of what this woman’s life had been: her childhood and youth in the hut of a Norman peasant; of what her own home might have been when she became a wife and mother; of the desolation which had come upon her in the death of all her family save only Pierre; of the strange fate that had brought her to Paris; of the terrible wrench which her old heart must have felt when her grandson was taken from her; and of the pathetic patience with which she had borne privation, loneliness, and suffering.
He knew only the outlines of her history, since Mère Marchette had spoken little of herself. What her feelings might have been he could only imagine: the old woman could not have told her mental experiences; she had never even analyzed them. Unless he had been a peasant and a mother himself, Lommel could not have divined Mère Marchette’s emotions; he could only reflect what he should have felt in her place. He said to himself at last that, after all, the circumstances which made Mère Marchette’s lot so pathetic must also have deadened her sensibilities and so have softened her suffering.
He sighed and looked at his watch. His assistant had gone to the railway station to meet Pierre, and the time he had fixed for their return was already past by five minutes. He felt again of his patient’s pulse, with a terrible dread lest after all the young soldier should arrive too late. The artery throbbed more feebly, but still steadily; and at his touch the sick woman opened her eyes with the old questioning look.
“Patience, Mère Marchette,” he said, nodding encouragingly; “all goes well.”
She did not speak, but she gave him a look so eloquent with gratitude that words were not needed. Then she lay quiet again and the silent watch went on. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen; the young doctor became extremely uneasy. At last in the distance he heard a clock strike one. At the sound Mère Marchette opened her eyes with a quick, startled glance.
“Pierre!” she cried, in a voice of intense love and terror.
“Victor has gone to the station to meet him; patience yet a little.”
The old woman regarded him with a look of terrible pathos.
“God could not let me die without seeing Pierre,” she murmured.
At that moment, through the still afternoon, was heard the sound of a carriage. Mère Marchette’s eyes shone with a wild and fevered expression.
“You must be calm,” Lommel said. “I will bring him to you.”
He administered the little stimulant she could take, and passed quickly out into the corridor.
V
Dr. Lommel closed the door of the ward behind him and started down the corridor, but at the first step he stopped suddenly with a terrible sinking of the heart. Victor was coming toward him, but alone, and with a white face.
“Victor,” Jean cried, in a voice intense but low, “what has happened? Where is Pierre?”
“There has been an accident,” Victor returned. “A bridge broke under his train.”
“But you do not know – ” began Lommel.
“Yes,” the other interrupted; “M. de Brue, who was on the train and escaped with a broken arm, was in the same compartment with Pierre. He rode through on the engine that came in for help. Pierre had told him I was to meet him, and so when M. de Brue saw me he stopped to say that the soldier was struck on the chest and killed instantly.”
Dr. Lommel stood regarding his companion with terror and compassion in his look.
“O mon Dieu!” he said; “poor Mère Marchette!”
“It will kill her,” Victor responded.
“That is nothing,” was the doctor’s reply. “It is not death, but the agony she will suffer.”
At that moment the nurse came out of the ward and hurried down the corridor to join them.
“M. le Docteur,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but the excitement of Mère Marchette is so great that I venture to suggest that her grandson hurry.”
She glanced around as she spoke, and saw that he was not there. An exclamation rose to her lips; the doctor checked her by a glance.
“Go back to Mère Marchette,” said he, “and say that I am cautioning Pierre – Stay, I will go myself. Wait here, Victor.”
He went back into the ward and passed down between the cots, from which eyes that the indifference of illness scarcely left human, watched him with faint curiosity. Mère Marchette was sitting up in bed, trembling with eagerness and excitement. All the reserve which she had maintained for weeks had been swept aside. The moment for which she had kept herself alive had come at last, and there was no longer any need to save her energy. Her eyes shone, a feverish glow was on her cheek, even her withered lips had taken on for the moment a wan and ghostly red. It seemed to the doctor, as he looked at her, as if all the vitality which remained in her feeble frame was being expended in a last quick fire.
“Ah,” he said, “I have been warning Pierre to be calm, when it is you to whom I should speak. Come, it will take only a moment, but I must give you treatment before I can let you see him.”
As he spoke he put his forefinger up to her forehead with a gesture he always used in hypnotizing her. Mère Marchette struggled a moment as if she could not yield to anything which delayed her reunion with Pierre; then she sank into a hypnotic sleep. The doctor leaned forward and spoke with an emphasis which he had never before used with his patient.
“When you awake,” he said, “you will see Pierre; the person I shall bring to you is your grandson. Remember,” he repeated, “it is Pierre who will come in with me.”
He breathed on her eyelids in the usual method of awaking her.
“Now,” he said, “I will bring him, Mère Marchette.”
He went back to where Victor and the nurse were awaiting him.
“Victor,” he said quickly, “you know the experiment M. Charcot tried yesterday when he made a hypnotized patient believe one person was another; I have told Mère Marchette that you are Pierre. You must take his place; come quickly.”
The young man drew back.
“I cannot,” he protested.
“You must,” Lommel returned, almost fiercely. “Come.”
VI
It was with terrible inward misgiving that Jean and Victor entered the ward; but as soon as the eyes of Mère Marchette fell upon the latter they knew that the experiment was a success. Such a look of yearning love illumined the withered old features, such an unspeakable joy shone in the sunken eyes, such quivering eagerness was expressed by the outstretched hands, that the young men found their way to the bedside blinded by tears. An inarticulate cry, that was half moan and half sob, burst from the lips of Mère Marchette as Victor fell on his knees by the bedside. Carried out of himself by genuine feeling, the young man had no need to simulate the emotions necessary for the part he was playing. Seizing the wrinkled hand which lay before him on the bed he covered it with tears and kisses; then, with a cry of piercing sweetness, Mère Marchette flung herself forward into his arms.
“O Pierre, Pierre!” she sobbed. “Oh, the good God, the good God!”
She clasped her arms about his neck, she strained him to her breast, the feebleness of her dying embrace transformed to strength by the divine fervor of maternal love. She mingled her kisses with a soft and hardly articulate babble of endearing words; the terms which she had used over his cradle she mingled with the pet names of his childhood and the loving speech which belonged to maturer years. She held him away from her that she might look at him, and her eyes were holden so that she saw in his face the changes that her fancy had pictured in thinking of the real Pierre.
“Ah,” she said, “how brown thou hast grown; and thou art such a man now! Ah, thou rogue,” she went on, laughing softly, “I knew thou hadst grown a beard – and not a word of it in thy letters. But I knew.”
She put her thin fingers under his chin and with a sudden gravity lifted his face.
“Look in my eyes,” she said; “why dost thou turn away? Hast thou not been a good boy; hast thou not loved the good God?”
Poor Victor, overwhelmed with the dreadful consciousness of deceit, found it almost impossible, in face of this touching and pious affection, to meet the old woman’s glance. He struggled to force himself to look into her eyes unwaveringly. Dr. Lommel laid his hand upon his companion’s shoulder.
“Yes, Mère Marchette,” said he, “Pierre is a good lad; that I will answer for.”
The old woman raised her eyes toward heaven, and her lips moved. She was evidently praying. She had received extreme unction just before noon, but this moment in which she commended her grandson to God was to her no less solemn than that of her own last communion. Then she put out her hand to Dr. Lommel with her smile of wonderful sweetness and an air of noble simplicity.
“You have been so kind to old Mère Marchette,” were her words; “the good God will reward you.”
He looked at the old dying peasant woman and tried to speak, but his sobs choked him. He bent and kissed her hand and laid it back gently in that of Victor. Her little strength was evidently failing fast. With a last effort she made a movement to drag herself nearer to Victor. He understood her wish and supported her in his arms.
“Promise me,” she murmured, her voice wasted almost to a whisper, “that thou wilt be good.”
“I promise,” he answered.
And the words were no less sincere because she mistook the speaker. A smile of heavenly rapture came over her face; she tried to speak and failed. But Victor understood her wish and kissed her. As their lips parted she sighed quiveringly.
“She is dead,” said Dr. Lommel.
VII
Victor laid the body gently back upon the bed and rose to his feet. He seized his friend by the shoulders; the tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“O mon Dieu, Jean!” he cried, “to deceive such trust. I feel as if I had been violating a sacrament.”
“I know,” the other answered; “but ah, how happy she was!”
Interlude Fifth.
“SUCH SWEET SORROW.”
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Romeo and Juliet, ii. 2.
[A drawing-room. Fanny Motley, who has been making a long call upon her bosom friend, Alice Langley, has at last risen to go.]
Alice. Oh, don’t go yet. I haven’t told you half the things I wanted to.
Fanny. Oh, I must go. I’ve got to go home to dress for Mrs. Fresco’s dinner. Do you suppose Jack will be there?
A. He told me he was going.
F. Oh, I do hope he won’t fail. I do so want to joke him about his sleigh-ride with Ella. Do you suppose she wore her hat with the orange plumes? It’s awfully unbecoming to her. It makes her look just salmon color.
A. She always had perfectly hideous taste. Do you remember that dowdy gown of green plush and mauve tulle she wore to Kate West’s german? It was a perfect dream of horror.
F. Yes; didn’t she look per-fectly hideous? Well (moving toward the door), come and see me just as soon as you can.
A. I’ll come in to-morrow before sewing-circle, if I can, to hear about the dinner. Don’t be too hard on Jack. You know he’s aw-fully thin-skinned.
F. Oh, I won’t be hard on him.
A. (pausing as they reach the door) Is that the boa you had Christmas?
F. Yes; isn’t it lovely? But I told mamma I knew she got it because she knew I’d got to have one, and she’d got to give me something.
A. How mean of you!
F. Oh, she didn’t mind. She’s used to it. Be sure and come in to-morrow.
A. Yes, I will. Oh, did I tell you that Tom Jones has invited Sophia Weston to go to the opera Saturday night?
F. You don’t mean it. Has he, really?
A. Yes; Ethel Mott told me this morning.
F. Do you suppose he is in earnest, after all?
A. Oh, there’s no telling about him. Frank says they bet about it at the club.
F. About him and Sophia?
A. Yes; whether he’ll propose before Lent.
F. How per-fectly horrid! Men are the worst creatures. I declare, I think those dreadful clubs ought to be suppressed.
A. So do I. They do say the most outrageous things. I don’t see how they can sit and listen to them.
F. I don’t, either.
A. And they talk over all the scandals.
F. Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly sweet it is to have a brother who will tell you all about it.
A. Isn’t it? It is almost as good as going myself.
F. Will never tells me a single thing (moving on into the hall). Well, be sure you come, and come as early as you can. Good-bye. (Kisses her.)
A. Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming as it can be.
F. Do you think so? Clara Martin’s makes her look as if she hadn’t any neck at all.
A. Oh, you can wear anything.
F. Thank you, dear. But then you can afford to say so, because you can wear anything yourself. Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers?
A. Oh, he wouldn’t know. Men never know what girls have on, – except Clarence Key, and he’s a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what he said to Kate West at the Westons’ tea? I’d have scratched his eyes out.
F. No; what in the world did he say?
A. You won’t repeat it? Because I told Kate I wouldn’t tell. She was so furious she had to tell somebody.
F. I’ll never tell. What was it?
A. You know that tailor-made gown she wears? The one made of gray corduroy? Well, Clarence Key asked her if she got it so her husband could have it made into riding trousers, after she was done with it. Did you ever hear such impertinence?
F. He didn’t really!
A. He really did!
F. Why, Alice! I should think she’d have killed him. I would.
A. So would I.
F. (putting her hand on the handle of the door) Well, good-bye. Give my love to Blanche when you write.
A. Yes, I will.
F. I shall see you to-morrow?
A. Yes. Good-bye.
[Fanny opens the door, and a blast of cold wind rushes in.]
F. Ugh! How awfully cold it is. I wish I had taken the carriage.
A. I went over to Ethel Mott’s this morning, and I thought I should freeze to death.
F. I hope I sha’n’t get pneumonia or anything. I want to go to the Claytons’ ball.
A. Oh, do tell me; what are you going to wear?
F. (returning and closing the door) There, that is one thing I wanted to ask you about. I want you to go in white, and I’ll wear that black lace I had made in New York last winter. I’ve never worn it here at all, and that’s the most stylish gown I ever had in my whole life.
A. Wouldn’t that be striking? We could go in together. I’ll have a new white tulle, and wear my pearls. I’ll make Aunt Alicia lend me hers, too.
F. That will be too lovely.
A. And you’ll wear diamonds?
F. Oh, no. I wore jet in New York. Not a single thing but black about me; not even my fan-sticks.
A. How per-fectly enchanting!
F. Will you do it?
A. Of course I will. I’ll buy the stuff to-morrow.
F. We’ll talk about it when you come to-morrow. (Opening the door.) I must go this very moment, or I shall never get to Mrs. Fresco’s.
A. What are you going to wear to-night?
F. That cardinal I showed you the other day.
A. Isn’t that rather gorgeous?
F. Oh, it’s going to be a big dinner, you know; and there’s lots of black lace on it.
A. It must be awfully becoming.
F. It is. If Jack knows anything, he ought to see a difference between that and orange plumes.
A. Ethel Mott told me – Oh, do come in a moment. I’m simply freezing to death, and I must tell you this.
F. (once more coming in and closing the door) Well, do be quick. I ought to have been home long ago.
A. Oh, you’ve lots of time.
F. But it takes so long to do my hair.
A. How are you going to wear it?
F. The same old way. I wish somebody’d invent some new style, – something real nice and becoming. I asked Uncle Calvin the other night if he hadn’t seen some pretty styles in China, and I wish you could have seen the pictures he brought out!
A. What were they like?
F. Like? They weren’t like anything. Why, I just gasped over them! Ships, and butterflies, and all sorts of things; all made out of hair, right on your own head.
A. Not really?
F. Yes, just as I tell you. I never saw anything so frightful.
A. It must have been perfectly ghastly!
F. Well, good-bye. Come early. Oh! what were you going to tell me?
A. To tell you?
F. Yes, – that Ethel Mott said.
A. Oh, she said that Kate West has been corresponding all winter with that West Point cadet she met at Newport last summer.
F. No!
A. Yes!
F. Why, Alice Langley, do you mean it?
A. Ethel said she knew it.
F. I don’t believe it.
A. That’s what I said.
F. But she’s as good as engaged to George Maynard.
A. I know it.
F. I think it’s perfectly awful.
A. So do I.
F. Do you suppose he knows it?
A. Oh, no. He’s so gone on Kate, he thinks she’d never look at anybody but him.
F. I never heard anything so perfectly amazing in my life.
A. And sometimes, Ethel says, they write each other two letters a week.
F. Two letters?
A. Two letters.
F. In one week?
A. That’s what Ethel says.
F. I wonder she doesn’t expect the ground to open and swallow her. I never heard of such deceit. Why, she’s going to lead the german with George at the Wentworths’ next week.
A. I know it.
F. Well, I’ve always said Kate West couldn’t be trusted out of your sight. (She turns, and opens the door.) I do believe that every time I open that door it is colder. I know I shall die before I get home, – or freeze my ears.
A. Think how dreadful it would be to freeze your ears. I knew a girl at boarding-school that froze her ears skating one vacation, and they hung down like rags. We used to tell her they were like a spaniel’s, and call her Fido. She’d get perfectly furious.
F. I don’t wonder.
A. It was awfully good fun to see how she tried to pretend she didn’t care; and then, when she couldn’t stand it another minute, she’d catch up the very first thing she could lay her hands on, and throw it.
F. (descending the steps) I would if I’d been she. Could she wear ear-rings?
A. Oh, not for the longest time, – as much as a year, any way. When we wanted to be especially pleasant, we told her that frozen ears always came off after a time.
F. How horrid!
A. But it was such fun!
F. Good-bye. Be sure and come to-morrow.
A. Yes.
F. And come early.
A. Yes; I’ll come right after luncheon.
F. Don’t you think your gown ought to be made just like my black one?
A. Yes; that would be more effective.
F. And then we can wear our hair just alike.
A. It’s a pity you couldn’t have some black flowers.
F. Yes. I don’t see why the florists don’t get up some. Phew! It’s as cold as Greenland. Do go in. You’ll get your death cold.
A. Good-bye. Don’t tell what I told you.
F. No; not to a soul. How did Ethel Mott find out about the letters?
A. She wouldn’t tell.
F. Do you suppose she really knew, or only guessed?
A. She said she really and truly knew.
F. Isn’t it amazing?
A. It is per-fectly incomprehensible.
E. Well, good-bye. I hope you’ll have good luck at the Whist Club to-night.
A. Oh, do come back till I tell you what Mr. Fremont said about the Whist Club.
[Fanny returns to the foot of the steps, and Alice goes half way down to meet her.]
A. He said he wasn’t going to the Whist Club any more, and I asked him why not, and he said he was tired of taking girls down to feed, when they’d been talking so all the evening that he couldn’t play.
F. Why, I never heard anything so insulting!
A. I told Mr. Van Bruch, and he said the trouble was that Mr. Fremont wanted all the time to feed himself.
F. Good. Do you know Colonel Graham says that he went to the Vaughns’ to play whist, and they held a conversazione instead. Wasn’t that clever?
A. Yes; awfully.
F. Good-bye. I’ll tell Jane to lay out my black dress, so it will be all ready when you come.
A. I’ll try and get time to go down town in the morning, to see what I can get to make my gown of. It’s an awful shame you had to hurry away so; I had lots of things to say.
F. Well, I really had to go, you know. You can’t keep a dinner party waiting, of course.
A. Oh, of course not. Good-bye. I’m awfully glad you came.
F. Good-bye. I’ve had a lovely time.
[She at last really goes, and Alice, after lingering a second to regret the things she has not said, retires and closes the door of the now pretty well aired house.]