CHAPTER TWELVE.
ZOE.
I lay tracing the figures upon the curtains. They were scenes of theolden time--mailed knights, helmed and mounted, dashing at each otherwith couched lances, or tumbling from their horses, pierced by thespear. Other scenes there were: noble dames, sitting on Flemishpalfreys, and watching the flight of the merlin hawk. There were pagesin waiting, and dogs of curious and extinct breeds held in the leash.Perhaps these never existed except in the dreams of some old-fashionedartist; but my eye followed their strange shapes with a sort ofhalf-idiotic wonder.
Metallic rods upheld the curtains; rods that shone brightly, and curvedupwards, forming a canopy. My eyes ran along these rods, scanning theirconfiguration, and admiring, as a child admires, the regularity of theircurves. I was not in my own land. These things were strange to me."Yet," thought I, "I have seen something like them before, but where?Oh! this I know, with its broad stripes and silken texture; it is aNavajo blanket! Where was I last? In New Mexico? Yes. Now Iremember: the Jornada! but how came I?
"Can I untwist this? It is close woven; it is wool, fine wool. No, Icannot separate a thread from--
"My fingers! how white and thin they are! and my nails, blue, and longas the talons of a bird! I have a beard! I feel it on my chin. Whatgave me a beard? I never wear it; I will shave it off--ha! mymoustache!"
I was wearied, and slept again.
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Once more my eyes were tracing the figures upon the curtains: theknights and dames, the hounds, hawks, and horses. But my brain hadbecome clearer, and music was flowing into it. I lay silent, andlistened.
The voice was a female's. It was soft and finely modulated. Someoneplayed upon a stringed instrument. I recognised the tones of theSpanish harp, but the song was French, a song of Normandy; and the wordswere in the language of that romantic land. I wondered at this, for myconsciousness of late events was returning; and I knew that I was farfrom France.
The light was streaming over my couch; and, turning my face to thefront, I saw that the curtains were drawn aside.
I was in a large room, oddly but elegantly furnished. Human figureswere before me, seated and standing.
After looking steadily for a while, my vision became more distinct andreliable; and I saw that there were but three persons in the room, a manand two females.
I remained silent, not certain but that the scene before me was onlysome new phase of my dream. My eyes wandered from one of the livingfigures to another, without attracting the attention of any of them.
They were all in different attitudes, and occupied differently.
Nearest me was a woman of middle age, seated upon a low ottoman. Theharp I had heard was before her, and she continued to play. She musthave been, I thought, when young, a woman of extreme beauty. She wasstill beautiful in a certain sense. The noble features were there,though I could perceive that they had been scathed by more than ordinarysuffering of the mind.
She was a Frenchwoman: an ethnologist could have told that at a glance.Those lines, the characteristics of her highly gifted race, were easilytraceable. I thought there was a time when that face had witched many aheart with its smiles. There were no smiles on it now, but a deep yetintellectual expression of melancholy. This I perceived, too, in hervoice, in her song, in every note that vibrated from the strings of theinstrument.
My eye wandered farther. A man of more than middle age stood by thetable, near the centre of the room. His face was turned towards me, andhis nationality was as easily determined as that of the lady. The high,florid cheeks, the broad front, the prominent chin, the small green capwith its long peak and conical crown, the blue spectacles, were allcharacteristics. He was a German.
His occupation was also characteristic of his nationality. Before himwere strewed over the table, and upon the floor, the objects of hisstudy--plants and shrubs of various species. He was busy with these,classifying and carefully laying them out between the leaves of hisportfolio. It was evident that the old man was a botanist.
A glance to the right, and the naturalist and his labours were no longerregarded. I was looking upon the loveliest object that ever came beforemy eyes, and my heart bounded within me, as I strained forward in theintensity of its admiration.
Yet it was not a woman that held my gaze captive, but a child--a girl--amaid--standing upon the threshold of womanhood, ready to cross it at thefirst summons of Love!
My eyes, delighted, revelled along the graceful curves that outlined thebeautiful being before me. I thought I had seen the face somewhere. Ihad, but a moment before, while looking upon that of the elder lady.They were the same face--using a figure of speech--the type transmittedfrom mother to daughter: the same high front and facial angle, the sameoutline of the nose, straight as a ray of light, with the delicatespiral-like curve of the nostril which meets you in the Greek medallion.Their hair, too, was alike in colour, golden; though, in that of themother, the gold showed an enamel of silver.
I will desist and spare details, which to you may be of little interest.In return, do me the favour to believe, that the being who impressed methen and for ever was beautiful, was lovely.
"Ah! it wod be ver moch kindness if madame and ma'm'selle wod play laMarseillaise, la grande Marseillaise. What say mein liebe fraulein!"
"Zoe, Zoe! take thy bandolin. Yes, doctor, we will play it for you withpleasure. You like the music. So do we. Come, Zoe!"
The young girl, who, up to this time, had been watching intently thelabours of the naturalist, glided to a remote corner of the room, andtaking up an instrument resembling the guitar, returned and seatedherself by her mother. The bandolin was soon placed in concert with theharp, and the strings of both vibrated to the thrilling notes of theMarseillaise.
There was something exceedingly graceful in the performance. Theinstrumentation, as I thought, was perfect; and the voices of theplayers accompanied it in a sweet and spirited harmony. As I gazed uponthe girl Zoe, her features animated by the thrilling thoughts of theanthem, her whole countenance radiant with light, she seemed someimmortal being--a young goddess of liberty calling her children "toarms!"
The botanist had desisted from his labours, and stood listening withdelighted attention. At each return of the thrilling invocation, "Auxarmes, citoyens!" the old man snapped his fingers, and beat the floorwith his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with thesame spirit which at that time, over all Europe, was gathering to itscrisis.
"Where am I? French faces, French music, French voices, and theconversation in French!" for the botanist addressed the females in thatlanguage, though with a strong Rhenish patois, that confirmed my firstimpressions of his nationality. "Where am I?"
My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognisethe furniture: the cross-legged Campeachy chairs, a rebozo, thepalm-leaf petate. "Ha, Alp!"
The dog lay stretched along the mattress near my couch, and sleeping.
"Alp! Alp!"
"Oh, mamma! mamma! ecoutez! the stranger calls."
The dog sprang to his feet, and throwing his fore paws upon the bed,stretched his nose towards me with a joyous whimpering. I reached outmy hand and patted him, at the same time giving utterance to someexpressions of endearment.
"Oh, mamma! mamma! he knows him. Voila."
The lady rose hastily, and approached the bed. The German seized me bythe wrist, pushing back the Saint Bernard, which was bounding to springupward.
"Mon Dieu! he is well. His eyes, doctor. How changed!"
"Ya, ya; moch better; ver moch better. Hush! away, tog! Keep away,mine goot tog!"
"Who? where? Tell me, where am I? Who are you?"
"Do not fear! we are friends: you have been ill!"
"Yes, yes! we are friends: you have been ill, sir. Do not fear us; wewill watch you. This is the good doctor. This is mamma, and I am--"
"An
angel from heaven, beautiful Zoe!"
The child looked at me with an expression of wonder, and blushed as shesaid--
"Hear, mamma! He knows my name!"
It was the first compliment she had ever received from the lips of love.
"It is goot, madame! he is ver moch relieft; he ver soon get over now.Keep away, mine goot Alp! Your master he get well: goot tog, down!"
"Perhaps, doctor, we should leave him. The noise--"
"No, no! if you please, stay with me. The music; will you play again?"
"Yes, the music is ver goot; ver goot for te pain."
"Oh, mamma! let us play, then."
Both mother and daughter took up their instruments, and again commencedplaying.
I listened to the sweet strains, watching the fair musicians a longwhile. My eyes at length became heavy, and the realities before mechanged into the soft outlines of a dream.
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My dream was broken by the abrupt cessation of the music. I thought Iheard, through my sleep, the opening of a door. When I looked to thespot lately occupied by the musicians, I saw that they were gone. Thebandolin had been thrown down upon the ottoman, where it lay, but "she"was not there.
I could not, from my position, see the whole of the apartment; but Iknew that someone had entered at the outer door, I heard expressions ofwelcome and endearment, a rustling of dresses, the words "Papa!"
"My little Zoe"; the latter uttered in the voice of a man. Thenfollowed some explanations in a lower tone, which I could not hear.
A few minutes elapsed, and I lay silent and listening. Presently therewere footsteps in the hall. A boot, with its jingling rowels, struckupon the tiled floor. The footsteps entered the room, and approachedthe bed. I started, as I looked up. The Scalp-hunter was before me!