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CHAPTER IX

I had been to see Monsieur Louis de Franchi that evening at eight o’clock, to
ask him if he had any orders or instructions to give me; but he requested me to
wait until the following morning, adding with a strange air— “Night brings
counsel.”

Accordingly, on the following morning, instead of calling for him at eight
o’clock, which would have left us plenty of time to be at the rendezvous at
nine, I was at de Franchi’s residence at half-past seven.

He was in his cabinet, writing.

At the noise which I made in opening the door, he turned round. He was very
pale.

“Excuse me,” he said; “I am just finishing a letter to my mother. Sit down
and take a paper, if to-day’s papers have come yet. There’s la Presse for
instance—it contains a charming feuilleton of Mons. Méry.

I took the paper which he designated, observing with astonishment the
contrast between the almost livid paleness of the young man, and his voice, so
sweet, grave, and calm.

I tried to read; but I merely followed the words with my eyes, without their
presenting any distinct idea to my mind. In a few minutes he rang the bell for
his valet.

“I have finished,” said he. Then speaking to his servant— “Joseph,”
continued he, “I am not at home for any body, not even for Giordano. If he
should come, invite him into the salon; I wish to be alone with this gentleman
for a few minutes, without any interruption whatever.

The servant went out and shut the door.

“Well, now, my dear Alexander,” began he to me, “Giordano is a Corsican, and
has Corsican ideas. I cannot, therefore, confide to him all my wishes. I shall
ask him to keep the secret, that is all. As for you, you must promise me to
fulfill my instructions to the very letter!”

“Certainly; is that not the duty of a second?”

“Yes; but yours is so much more important, as, by fulfilling it, you will
perhaps spare my family a second misfortune.”

“A second misfortune?” exclaimed I, in astonishment.

“Hold!” said he, “read this letter I have written to my mother.”

I took the letter from de Franchi’s hand, and read in increasing amazement:

“My Good Mother:

“If I did not know you to be both strong as a Spartan and submissive as a
Christian woman, I should employ all possible means to prepare you for the
dreadful event which is about to overwhelm you. When you receive this letter,
you will have but one son!

“Lucien, my excellent brother, love my mother for both of us.

“The day before yesterday I was attacked with a cerebral fever, and paid but
little attention to the first symptoms. The doctor has been called in too late.
my dear mother, there is no hope left for me. Nothing less than a miracle could
save me, and what right have I to expect that God would work such a wonder for
me?

“I write to you in a lucid interval.”

“If I die, this letter will be put in the post-office a quarter of an hour
after my death. For, in the egotism of my love for you, I wish you to know that
I have died, regretting nothing in the whole world, but your tenderness and my
brother’s love.

“Farewell, my mother! Do not weep! It was my soul that loved you, and not my
body; and wherever my spirit may go, it will never cease to love you!

“Farewell, Lucien! Never leave our mother! and remember that she has none
left but you!

“Your son and brother,

“Louis de Franchi.”

After reading these last words, I looked up to him who had written them.

“Well,” said I, “what is the meaning of all this ‘”

“Don’t you understand?”

“No.”

“I shall be killed at ten minutes after nine!”

“You will be killed ”

“Yes.”

“But you are foolish; why do you indulge in such an idea?”

“I am not foolish; nor do I indulge in any weakness, my dear friend. I have
been informed, that’s all.”

“Informed! and by whom?”

“Has not my brother told you,” said Louis, with a smile, “that the males in
our family enjoy a peculiar privilege?”

“He has,” replied I, trembling in spite of myself; “he spoke of visions.”

“Exactly! Well, my father appeared to me last night; that is the reason you
have found me so pale. The sight of the dead makes the living pale.”

I looked at him with an astonishment which was not free from terror. “You
have seen your father last night, you say?”

“Yes.”

“And he has spoken to you?”

“He announced my death to me!”

“That was some terrific dream?”

“It was a terrific reality.”

“You slept?”

“I was awake. Don’t you believe that a father can appear to his son?”

“I bowed my head; for, in the depths of my heart, I believed in such a
possibility.

“How did it happen?” asked I again.

“In the most simple and natural manner. I was reading while waiting for my
father, for I knew, if I was in any danger, that he would appear to me. At
midnight my lamp, without any apparent cause, became dim, the door opened
slowly, and my father appeared.”