Chapter 21

Chapter XXI:
M. Malicorne the Keeper of the Records of France.

Two women, their figures completely concealed by their mantles, and whose
masks effectually hid the upper portion of their faces, timidly followed
Manicamp's steps. On the first floor, behind curtains of red damask, the
soft light of a lamp placed upon a low table faintly illumined the room,
at the other extremity of which, on a large bedstead supported by spiral
columns, around which curtains of the same color as those which deadened
the rays of the lamp had been closely drawn, lay De Guiche, his head
supported by pillows, his eyes looking as if the mists of death were
gathering; his long black hair, scattered over the pillow, set off the
young man's hollow temples. It was easy to see that fever was the chief
tenant of the chamber. De Guiche was dreaming. His wandering mind was
pursuing, through gloom and mystery, one of those wild creations delirium
engenders. Two or three drops of blood, still liquid, stained the
floor. Manicamp hurriedly ran up the stairs, but paused at the threshold
of the door, looked into the room, and seeing that everything was
perfectly quiet, he advanced towards the foot of the large leathern
armchair, a specimen of furniture of the reign of Henry IV., and seeing
that the nurse, as a matter of course, had dropped off to sleep, he awoke
her, and begged her to pass into the adjoining room.

Then, standing by the side of the bed, he remained for a moment
deliberating whether it would be better to awaken Guiche, in order to
acquaint him with the good news. But, as he began to hear behind the
door the rustling of silk dresses and the hurried breathing of his two
companions, and as he already saw that the curtain screening the doorway
seemed on the point of being impatiently drawn aside, he passed round the
bed and followed the nurse into the next room. As soon as he had
disappeared the curtain was raised, and his two female companions entered
the room he had just left. The one who entered first made a gesture to
her companion, which riveted her to the spot where she stood, close to
the door, and then resolutely advanced towards the bed, drew back the
curtains along the iron rod, and threw them in thick folds behind the
head of the bed. She gazed upon the comte's pallid face; remarked his
right hand enveloped in linen whose dazzling whiteness was emphasized by
the counterpane patterned with dark leaves thrown across the couch. She
shuddered as she saw a stain of blood growing larger and larger upon the
bandages. The young man's breast was uncovered, as though for the cool
night air to assist his respiration. A narrow bandage fastened the
dressings of the wound, around which a purplish circle of extravasated
blood was