# Atalanta in the South/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII.
After leaving the Hôtel-Dieu, Philip Rondelet repaired to the club where it was his habit to dine. He took his accustomed seat, and mechanically perused the evening paper which the servant placed beside his plate. It is presumable that he ate his dinner; it is certain that the usual number of courses were placed before him, and the same quantity of wine. If the waiter had been called upon to testify as to Mr. Rondelet's condition that evening, it is probable that he would have remarked that the gentleman seemed "absent-like," and took little note of what he ate; that he chose his cigar without noticing the brand, and omitted to light it as he walked out of the club. If Philip had been ordered to give an account of himself between the time of his leaving the hospital and the hour when he found himself in his room staring at his own face in the mirror, he would have found it an impossible task. A perfect blank had settled upon him,—a numbness of heart and brain merciful, but, alas! only too brief.
​It had seemed to him that he was a shipwrecked man alone in mid-ocean, seated on a single rock o'ertopping the waves. All about him were the smooth green waters lapping the rock and gently laving his feet. It was very hot, the sun blazed down upon him; and yet he felt no present pain, only a terror of what was to come. The shriek of the sea-mew sounded in his ears—it was but the sweet voice of his caged ringdove cooing to him—and a foul carrion-bird flapped its wings as it circled slowly about him; still no pain, only a growing apprehension as the sea-water, grown hot and biting, rose about the rock, rippling against his knees with a sound as of faint diabolic laughter. Higher and higher rose the flood, till hip and breast and chin were covered; and ah! at last he had found his voice. As the bitter water rushed into his mouth he gave a strangling cry and started to his feet, to find himself alone in his apartment, his own haggard face, reflected in the mirror, the only thing of all that fearful vision that remained. Then came "remembrance risen from hell," and he cried out again; but this time his voice was sharp with sorrow only, the terror born of the moment's madness was passed.
"Margaret! Margaret!" he cried, "how could you deceive me so? False! false! false! Like ​all other women, born only to snare and torture!"
He clasped his hot hands together and wrung them mercilessly; he struck his forehead with his clenched hand, moved by that strange instinct which seeks to divert a mental agony by inflicting a physical pain half as intense.
But his rage was of short duration; there was more of grief than of anger in him,—that grief which gnaws at the heart-strings and saps strength and hope, and finally life itself. He loved her too well, too purely, to hold his anger. Sister Gabrielle had spoken truly when she said, "there is more of the spirit than of the flesh about the man." The red flush faded from his brow and cheek, and left him pale and cold with the mortal chilliness of despair. There was no hope; Margaret loved another. Life, which had looked so bright that morning, was insupportable now. He could not bear the thought that seemed to blend spirit and flesh into one ceaseless agony, vibrating through his being with every beat of the heart. He could not bear it! Reason itself would be consumed in that fierce struggle; rather let it be life! The instant the thought struck him he started to his feet, and from his medicine-chest drew forth a small phial containing a deadly drug. Five drops would suffice to ease the feverish pain throbbing in every ​nerve and brain-cell. With a steady hand he poured the clear, colorless liquid into a medicine-glass, accurately measuring the dose and replacing the stopper from force of habit. He raised the glass, it already touched his lips, when he paused, seemed to hesitate, and then put the glass down with a low sigh.
"Therese—I had forgotten my promise; well, this can wait."
He poured the drops carefully back into the phial, crushed the glass beneath his heel, and then, locking the door behind him, went down stairs into the street.
Where to find that mad girl, that would-be murderess? he asked himself again and again. His whole mind was fixed as intently upon finding Therese as it had been just now on his own destruction. Until he found her he could not be at rest. He had given his word to save her, and with that word unredeemed he could not sleep at ease in his grave. Where to find her? He had exhausted all the places where there was any probability of hearing of her, he was at a loss what to do next. Meanwhile, his feet had brought him to the river-side; he stood leaning against a pier. Presently he laughed aloud at a thought that passed through his mind.
"I cannot even die till I have found and ​saved Robert Feuardent's bastard sister! Ye gods, there 's something grotesque about that!"
Where should he look for her? That was the thought that puzzled him as he stood there in the shadow of the pier meditating his plan of action, while the mighty river, quiet and resist less in its silent strength, flowed swiftly by the city lying in its cool embrace. He was quite unconscious of the passage of time, and the clock on the cathedral in Jackson Square rang out the hours without attracting his attention. It must have been somewhere about midnight when he was roused from the revery into which he had fallen. He was startled by something rustling past him as he stood leaning against the wooden pier. In an instant his senses were keenly alert. It was a woman's dress that had touched him; he was sure of that—yes—there was the woman now, sitting a few paces from him on the edge of the bank. She seemed very tired, for she had chosen a place where some logs of wood made a support for her, and she leaned back, rolling up her cloak to form a cushion for her head. Philip felt a movement of compassion for this homeless creature who had no other resting-place than a pile of lumber on the levee. He felt in his pocket: he had some money with him; it might help this wanderer, and it would be pleasant to think that he had ​made one human being less wretched before he was admitted to the great calm. He was about to approach her, when the woman suddenly rose and walked rapidly to the brink of the river. She took her cloak, and drawing from her breast some small articles which he could not distinguish, knotted them in its folds and threw the bundle into the water. In an instant it was whirled away by the swift current. The woman watched the senseless thing swirling in the strong tide, and gave a low cry, as if the sight were painful to her.
"I wish I had not done that," he heard her say in an undertone, "it looks so horrible."
Philip, dimly understanding the import of the scene, had drawn unobserved close behind the woman. She could not make a movement which he could not check. The moon, which had been obscured, now broke through a mass of purple cloud, its light transforming the sombre river into an argent tide and making the dark river-bank as bright as day. It showed to Philip Rondelet the graceful outline of the figure before him. She shuddered at the sight of the moon, and muffling her head and face more closely in the folds of the lace mantilla which she wore, she made a sudden movement, throwing her arms above her head, as if to leap into the river. A strong arm was thrown about her, and she ​was drawn struggling back from the perilous edge.
"Wretched woman! what are you doing?"
"Drowning myself; and by what right do you dare to stop me? Cannot one die in peace in this accursed city?" she cried. She had ceased to struggle with him.
Philip stood between her and the river, his hand upon her arm.
"One may die in peace, but one may not take one's own life; it is forbidden."
"By whom?"
"It is against the law of God and of man."
"And what are you who dare to stop me?"
What was he indeed, and by what right did he, the would-be suicide of an hour ago, endeavor to turn this poor girl from her bent?
"Don't you know me, Therese?"
She looked at him, and then the rage died from her face. She fell upon her knees at his feet and clasped his hand in both of hers, crying imploringly: "It is you, then! You are my friend, my only friend in this great city, where I am hunted like a dog. Let me die! let me die! What have I to live for?"
He could not answer her; knowing her miserable story, how could he—he of all men on God's earth that night—tell her why she must live and suffer when peace was so near at hand ​beneath the river? For one brief moment he faltered; the thought came to him of taking this broken-hearted, sinful creature by the hand and leaping with her into the flood. But the moment passed, the temptation was overcome, and he lifted his voice and spoke to the kneeling, weeping woman, about whose desperate beauty the moonlight played fancifully. He spoke to her as only those who are gifted with the living speech can speak,—words which can no more be written down and read again than can the subtle power which animates them be prisoned and made material. Those who have heard the sentences of one of these seers among men never forget what they felt in hearing and answering them. For it is their gift to appeal to the best and no blest thoughts in men's hearts, howsoever deeply these thoughts may be buried under sin and selfishness. The hidden water for which men thirst lies in the depths of their own souls, and the living word is the divining-rod which points out its source, so oft forgotten or ignored.
And when he was at last silent, and the weeping woman had risen and laid her hand in his and bade him do with her as he would, the man knew that the battle had been fought and won for her, and eke for him. And so it is that we are sometimes preserved from falling into a sin by the act of saving another from the very ​snare into which we were walking, open-eyed and unashamed.
The night had grown chilly; Therese was shivering in the piercing river-breeze. What was he to do with her? Where could she find shelter at that hour? It was past one o'clock. She must be housed until the morning, when he would get her away from the city.
Sara Harden—she would help him in this strait, and keep the secret of the unfortunate who now clung trembling to his arm.
"Come, Therese, let us walk fast; you are half numb with the damp air."
Mrs. Harden was one of those people who have an inborn prejudice against daylight, preferring the night for pleasure, for thought, and for social intercourse. Philip had not reckoned without his hostess when he had decided to claim her hospitality for the weary creature whose footsteps he supported through the deserted streets. There was a light in the music-room of Darius Harden's house. The blind was partly ajar, and through the window Philip could distinguish a slight figure reclining in a great chair near the reading-table. All the rest of the house was dark. At the risk of startling the little woman he tapped gently on the window and said in a low voice: "Mrs. Harden, it is I, Rondelet; don't be frightened."
​The arm-chair was suddenly upset, and a small white figure with loosened hair rushed to the window.
"Philip! What brings you here at this hour? Is anything wrong?"
"Open the window, dear friend, and let us in. I have brought some one who needs shelter badly."
"You are not alone, then?" cautiously.
"No; I have brought you a poor girl half frozen, half starved."
The window flew open, and the impulsive soul caught Therese by the arm and drew her from the dark street into the dainty little boudoir, all light and flowers and perfume. She placed the girl in her own chair, not forgetting to toss out of sight, before its title caught Philip's eyes, the yellow-covered French novel she had been reading. He smiled as he marked the action, and said: "I was almost certain of finding you up still. May she stay here for a few hours? Let her lie on the sofa till morning. I shall come for her before your people are stirring."
"Of course she shall stay," answered Sara Harden warmly. "Poor child, she looks so ill! Are you not hungry? Wait till I bring you something to eat."
She bustled out of the room, and Philip, kneeling upon the hearth, blew the embers into a blaze. ​Now that the full light fell upon her, he saw how terribly Therese had changed since he had last seen her. Her face had paled to the color of alabaster, and her sombre eyes were sunken and hollow. The warmth of the fire, the effect of the food and wine of which Sara Harden urged her to partake, soon brought a shade of color to her cheek; and half an hour after her entrance into that cheerful room the girl's eyes had lost the wild expression which made her look more like a hunted animal than a human being. Philip felt that he had best leave her alone with the tender-hearted lady; and so, warning her that she must be ready for him at daylight, he left the house.
For an hour he had not thought of himself. Now that he was alone again, his trouble settled down upon him like a heavy pall. Yet his spirit did not quail under it. Strength had come to him, and he had manfully shouldered the burden of grief laid upon him. He reached his room and sat down to think what he had best do with Therese, what he could do for himself. The events of the day came back to him, and he reviewed them coolly and dispassionately, as if he had been but an on-looker of his own grief and madness. He recalled every incident, from the moment when he had left the hospital to that which saw him sitting in the gray morning ​twilight under the leads of the old Pontalba Building. By a curious action of the brain he remembered things which had made no impression on his mind at the moment they occurred, the dinner he had tried to eat at the club, the paper he had feigned to read, the words of the despatch which he had perused, but whose import he had not till now comprehended :—
"To the People of New Orleans: Send us help! The fever has broken out. People are dying by hundreds. Doctors and nurses are needed.
"Thebes."
Thebes, a sister city in a neighboring State, a city bound to New Orleans by the closest ties of affection and sympathy, cried to her for help in her hour of agony!
Philip Rondelet started to his feet as the words of the despatch flashed through his brain. His resolve was taken in that moment; and before the sun had risen he had completed his preparations for the journey that lay before him.
Therese was awaiting him. The few hours which she had passed in the society of a woman who had treated her with the simple and unquestioning politeness which is an essential of good breeding, had transformed the wild outcast of the night into a quiet, dignified woman who met the man who had but a few hours ago saved her ​life with a half smile sadder than tears. Was this the same Therese that he had heard swearing vengeance on her brother's head over her dead lover's body? Was this the fever-stricken woman who had poured into his ears the story of her broken life,—the would-be suicide he had saved from the river's fierce tide? Had she, in truth, been maddened by her grief, and was he seeing for the first time the real Therese in this dignified and beautiful woman? He asked himself these questions as he looked at her, little guessing that in himself had lain the power which had wrought the wonderful transformation.
Sara Harden was waiting for him too, very pale and pretty in her soft white morning wrapper. She asked him no question, though she saw the carriage at the door laden with his luggage.
He took her hand and said: "Dear friend, good-by. Thank you for what you have done for—for mademoiselle; she will never forget it, I am sure. I am going to put her on the steamer which sails in an hour for France, and then I am going, it is right that you should know,—I am going to Thebes. They have sent a call for doctors—"
"To Thebes!" she cried, her face turning white as her dress. "Philip, do you know that for you, almost a stranger to this climate, that ​means the fever, and the fever means death? No, no, you cannot go; let others who have nothing to live for risk their lives—"
He looked at her sadly, and raised her hand to his lips.
"You will miss me?"
There was an infinite yearning in his face and voice. The next moment he was gone; and Sara Harden, burying her fair head in her hands, sat down and wept as the carriage bore away toward the pest-stricken town the man whom she had always loved as a heart's' brother.
At the station there was the usual crowd of hangers-on, and but few passengers, as it was still very early. A small, clean-shaven man leaning against the rail outside the ticket-office seemed absorbed in studying the labyrinthine table of outgoing trains. A cab drove up at a sharp pace, and Philip Rondelet, jumping lightly to the ground, turned and said in an undertone to his companion: "Are you in earnest, Therese? It is not yet too late for the steamer. For the last time, will you not give up the idea of going with me?"
"No, I am determined. If you can risk your life, why should I love mine too much to do the same thing?"
"It is very different. You are a woman, and have no knowledge of the work you are ​undertaking. As for me, I am a physician, and it is my duty to go where I am needed. Come, my child, give it up. Believe me, it is better for you."
She looked at him, terrified at the thought of leaving him, and shook her head.
"No, I have decided."
Rondelet saw that it was useless to attempt to dissuade her, and after giving Hero orders to attend to the baggage, stepped to the ticket-office.
"Three tickets for Thebes."
"Return?"
"No,—it 's hardly necessary; they might never be wanted."
The man laughed at the grim jest and handed the tickets to Philip. At this moment the lounger, who had to all appearance never removed his eyes from the table of trains he was studying, greeted Philip.
"Morning, Doctor."
"Ah, Dryer, is that you?"
"Yes, sir. I am here," he said, lowering his voice, "on the lookout for certain persons whom the authorities prefer to keep in New Orleans."
"You are still on the force then?" said Philip indifferently. He had recognized in Dryer an old acquaintance and a member of the detective force.
"Yes, sir; and I beg your pardon for asking ​the question, but what is the name of that lady in the carriage?"
"Really, Dryer, I don't understand by what right—" Philip began angrily.
"I know, sir," the man said apologetically; "but you see duty is duty, and your friend comes uncommon near to a description I have of a certain woman we are after."
"There 's some mistake, I think. I have just called for that lady at Darius Harden's house, where she spent last night. Is it likely now that a friend of mine and of Mrs. Harden can be in any way connected with a matter of the kind you suggest?"
"I know, Doctor; but the first rule of my profession is that appearances are deceitful."
"I have no time to lose, Mr. Dryer. I am on my way to Thebes. You saw the appeal in last night's paper? This lady, who is going as a nurse, is under my care. Does that satisfy you?"
"No, sir."
"Ask the driver if what I have said is true."
"Your word, Doctor, is all that I require. If you will assure me that the lady in the carriage is not a certain Therese Caseneuve, suspected of having assaulted Mr. Robert Feuardent, I shall be satisfied."
Philip changed color. He would have given ​his life to save the woman from this new disgrace; but his word!
He looked the little gimlet-eyed detective fairly in the eyes, and said: "I pledge you my word of honor that every word I have told you about that lady is true. She is going to Thebes, taking her life in her hand, to help those pest-stricken people; I will hold myself responsible for her. And I charge you, as you are a man, not to challenge a soldier on the way to duty at a post of danger, it may be of death."
He had laid his hand on the man's shoulder, and was looking at him with that burning look in his strange eyes which was wont to control the men and women who met it.
"Well, Doctor, if you say it's all right, I must take your word for it," said the detective, slowly turning away. "I am afraid I 've let the wool be pulled over my eyes with those same optics a leetle too wide open," he added to himself.
By this time the train was ready to start; Philip, Therese, and Hero had taken their places. With a sudden spasm of official remorse, Dryer rushed to the window of the car where Rondelet was sitting.
"Doctor, I have your word for the reappearance of that person if she is wanted?"
"The person will be in the place I told you of; but you must come yourself to get her. ​Good-by, Dryer. When you see Mr. Feuardent, tell him what was said between us."
"Good-by, Dr. Rondelet! good-by, marm! May the Lord have mercy on them both!" he added under his breath as the train with its scanty complement of passengers thundered out of the depot, laden with medicines, with garments, with food and money for the relief of the fever-stricken city, for which only three travellers were booked.