Then, kneeling down by Frederick, he put his hand upon the poor boy's heart. It was not beating, his extremities were stiff and cold, his lips blue and convulsively closed, nor did one breath escape from them.

David, terrified, lifted the half-closed eyelid of the youth: his eye was immovable, dull and gla.s.sy.

The rain continued to flow in torrents over this inanimate body. David could no longer restrain his sobs. Alone, on this solitary sh.o.r.e, with no help near, when help was so much needed,--powerful and immediate help, even if one spark of life still remained in the body before him!

David was looking around him, in desperate need, when at a little distance he saw a thick column of smoke rising from behind a projecting angle of the embankment, which, no doubt, hid some inhabited house from his sight.

To carry Frederick in his arms, and, in spite of his heavy burden, to run to this hidden habitation, was David's spontaneous act. When he had pa.s.sed this angle, he perceived at a little distance one of the brick-kilns so numerous on the borders of the Loire, as brickmakers find in this lat.i.tude all the necessary materials of clay, sand, water, and wood.

Making use of his reminiscences of travel, David recalled the fact that the Indians inhabiting the borders of the great lakes, often restore their half-drowned companions to life, and awaken heat and circulation of the blood, by means of large stones which are made hot,--a sort of drying-place, upon which they place the body while they rub the limbs with spirits.

The brickmakers came eagerly to David's a.s.sistance. Frederick, enveloped in a thick covering, was extended on a bed of warm bricks, and exposed to the penetrating heat which issued from the mouth of the oven. A bottle of brandy, offered by the head workman, was used in rubbing. For some time David doubted the success of his efforts. Nevertheless some little symptoms of sensibility made his heart bound with hope and joy.

An hour after having been carried to the brick-kiln, Frederick, completely restored, was still so feeble, notwithstanding his consciousness, that he was not able to utter a word, although many times he looked at David with an expression of tenderness and unspeakable grat.i.tude.

The preceptor and his pupil were in the modest chamber of the master workman, who had returned to his work near the embankment, and with his labourers was observing the level of the stream, which had not reached such a height in many years, for the inhabitants of these sh.o.r.es were always filled with fear at the thought of an overflow of the Loire.

David had just administered a warm and invigorating drink to Frederick, when the youth said, in a feeble voice:

"M. David, it is to you that I shall owe the happiness of seeing my mother again!"

"Yes, you will see her again, my child," replied the preceptor, pressing the son's hands in his own, "but why did you not think that to kill yourself was to kill your mother?"

"I thought of that too late. Then I felt myself lost, and I cried, 'My mother!' when I should have cried, 'Help!'"

"Fortunately, that supreme cry I heard, my poor child. But now that you are calm, I implore you, tell me--"

Then, interrupting himself, David added:

"No, after what has pa.s.sed, I have no right to question you. I shall wait for a confession which I wish to owe only to your confidence."

Frederick felt David's delicacy, for it was evident that his preceptor did not desire to abuse the influence given by a service rendered, by forcing a confidence from him.

Then he said, with tears in his eyes:

"M. David, life was a burden to me. I judged of the future by the past, and I wished to end it. Yet, that night, when during my mother's sleep I bade her farewell, my heart was broken. I thought of the sorrow that I would cause her in killing myself, and for a moment I hesitated, but I said to myself, 'My life will cost her more tears perhaps than my death,' and so I decided to put an end to it. This morning I asked her to forgive all the grief I had caused her, I also asked you to forgive me for the wrongs I had done to you, M. David. I did not wish to carry with me the animadversion of anybody. To remove all suspicion I affected calmness, certain of finding during the day some means of escaping your watchfulness and that of my mother. Your invitation to go out this morning served my plans. I was acquainted with the country. I directed our walk toward a spot where I felt sure I could escape from you and from your a.s.sistance, and I do not know how it was possible for you to find a trace of me, M. David."

"I will tell you that, my child, but continue."

"The hurry, the eagerness of my flight, the noise of the wind and the waters, seemed to intoxicate me, and then, on the horizon, I saw rise up before me, like an apparition, the--" Here a light flush coloured Frederick's cheeks, and he did not finish his sentence.

David mentally supplied it, and said to himself:

"This unhappy child, in his moment of desperation, saw, as it commanded the sh.o.r.e of the river from afar, the castle of Pont Brillant."

After a short silence, Frederick continued:

"As I told you, M. David, I seemed intoxicated, almost mad, for I do not recollect at what spot on the river I threw myself in. The cold in the water seized me, I thought I was going to die, and then I was afraid.

Then the thought of my mother came back to me. I seemed to see her, as in a dream, throw herself upon my cold, dead body. I did not want to die, and I cried, 'My mother! my mother!' as I tried to save myself, for I know very well how to swim; but the cold made me numb, and I felt myself sinking to the bottom. As I heard the river roar above my head I made a desperate effort, and came to the surface of the water, and then I lost consciousness until I found myself here, M. David,--here where you have brought me,--saved me as if I were your child,--here, where my first thought has been of my mother."

And Frederick, fatigued by the emotion of this recital, leaned his elbow on the bed where they had carried him, and remained silent, his head resting on his hand.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The conversation between David and Frederick was interrupted by the brickmaker, who entered the chamber, looking very much frightened.

"Monsieur," said he, hurriedly, to David, "the cart is ready. Go quick."

"What is the matter?" asked David.

"The Loire is still rising, monsieur. Before two hours all my little furniture and effects will be swept away."

"Do you fear an overflow?"

"Perhaps, monsieur, for the rising of the waters is becoming frightful, and, if the Loire overflows, to-morrow nothing will be seen of my brick-kiln but the chimneys. So, for the sake of prudence, I must move you out. The cart which takes you home, will, on its return, carry my furniture away."

"Come, my child," said David to Frederick, "have courage. You see we have not a moment to lose."

"I am ready, M. David."

"Fortunately our clothes are dry, thanks to this hot furnace. Lean on me, my child."

As they left the house, Frederick said to the brickmaker:

"Pardon me, sir, for not being able to thank you better for your kind attention, but I will return."

"May Heaven bless you, my young gentleman, and grant that you may not find a ma.s.s of rubbish when you return to this place, instead of this house."

David, without Frederick's knowledge, gave two gold pieces to the brickmaker, as he said, in a low voice:

"That is for the cart."

A few minutes elapsed, and the son of Madame Bastien left the brick-kiln with David in the rustic conveyance filled with a thick layer of straw, and covered over with a cloth, for the rain continued to fall in torrents.

The cart driver, wrapped in a wagoner's coat, and seated on one of the shafts, urged the gait of the horse, that trotted slowly and heavily.

David insisted that Frederick should lie down in the cart, and lean his head on his knees; thus seated in the back of the cart, he held the youth in a half embrace, and watched over him with paternal solicitude.

"My child," said he, carefully wrapping Frederick in the thick covering loaned by the brickmaker, "are you not cold?"

"No, M. David."

"Now, let us agree upon facts. Your mother must never know what has happened this morning. We will say, shall we not, that, surprised by a beating rain, we obtained this cart with great difficulty? The brickmaker thinks you fell in the water by imprudently venturing too near the slope of the embankment. He has promised me not to noise abroad this accident, the reports of which might frighten your mother. Now, that being agreed upon, we will think of it no more."