Produced by Douglas Ethington
A TRANSLATION OF
ADOLPHE BELOT'S
"La Sultane parisienne"
BY
H. MAINWARING DUNSTAN.
It will not, we trust, have been forgotten that in the month ofMarch, 1873, the Count de Pommerelle paid a visit to Dr. Desrioux,whom he found bowed down with grief, in consequence of the death ofhis mother. To his affection for her the young doctor had sacrificedhis love for Madame de Guéran, his plans for accompanying her in hertravels, and his most cherished hopes. In this state of almostdespair he had begged M. de Pommerelle to take him away anywhere outof Paris.
The two friends met again at the funeral of Madame Desrioux. Prom thehouse of death they proceeded to the church, and thence to Père LaChaise. The Count at first considerately mingled with the crowd ofrelations and friends who had assembled to show the Doctor theirsympathy with him in his distress. But as soon as the mournfulceremony was over, and the concourse of people had taken theirdeparture, some in mourning coaches, and others down the long avenuesof the cemetery, M. de Pommerelle resumed his place at his friend'sside, to which he was entitled by his daily association with theDoctor, by their ties of friendship, drawn closer and closer duringthe few past months, and by the words which had passed between themon the previous evening.
"By virtue of the powers you have yourself given me, I takepossession of you," said the Count.
And, acting up to his words, he put his arm in that of M. Desrioux,and drew his grief-stricken friend away. At the gate of the cemeterythey found a brougham in waiting, which, after half an hour's drive,deposited them in front of a small hotel in the Avenue Montaigne.
M. Desrioux alighted from the vehicle mechanically, ascended thesteps, and, with his friend and host, entered a room on the groundfloor. He appeared quite unconscious of how he had reached the hotel,or what he was doing. It was almost as if his mind, clinging to itsformer companionship with his mother, had sought a voluntary grave byher side, and as if his spirit had ascended to heaven with hers.
The Count felt bound to make an attempt to rouse him from this stateof stupor and mental lethargy, this physical and intellectualprostration, which not unfrequently follows upon excessive fatigueand prolonged experiences of sorrow. Placing himself right in frontof M. Desrioux, and compelling the latter to look up, he said—
"You have fulfilled to the utmost every duty, both as a son and aphysician. You have fought against death, and have been worsted inthe fight. Now, what do you intend doing?"
M. Desrioux looked at him at first without taking in the sense of hiswords, but, on the question being repeated, he exclaimed—
"What am I going to do? I know not—I know not."
"But I do," said the Count, decidedly. "You are going to rejoin herwhom, after your mother, you loved best in the world, by whose side,even if you cannot altogether forget the past, you will at all eventssuffer less acutely. You are going to set out for Africa, andendeavour to rejoin Madame de Guéran."
"No, no I do not let us speak of her now," exclaimed M. Desrioux, "Ihave no right to talk about her. I must devote myself to the memoryof my mother. All my thoughts belong to her, and I cannot turn to anyone else."
"Was not Madame de Guéran a favourite with your mother?" asked the
Count.
"Oh! yes, a v