The old lady's temper gave way again at that reply.
"I hate a man who can't hate anybody!" she burst out.
"If you had been an ancient Roman, Julian, I believe you would have pitied Nero himself."
Julian cordially agreed with her.
"I believe I should," he said, quietly. "All sinners, my dear aunt, are more or less miserable sinners.
Nero must have been one of the wretchedest of mankind."
"Wretched!" exclaimed Lady Janet.
"Nero wretched!
A man who committed robbery, arson and murder to his own violin accompaniment—only wretched!
What next, I wonder?
When modern philanthropy begins to apologize for Nero, modern philanthropy has arrived at a pretty pass indeed!
We shall hear next that Bloody Queen Mary was as playful as a kitten; and if poor dear Henry the Eighth carried anything to an extreme, it was the practice of the domestic virtues.
Ah, how I hate cant!
What were we talking about just now?
You wander from the subject, Julian; you are what I call bird-witted.
I protest I forget what I wanted to say to you.
No, I won't be reminded of it.
I may be an old woman, but I am not in my dotage yet!
Why do you sit there staring?
Have you nothing to say for yourself?
Of all the people in the world, have you lost the use of your tongue?"
Julian's excellent temper and accurate knowledge of his aunt's character exactly fitted him to calm the rising storm.
He contrived to lead Lady Janet insensibly back to the lost subject by dexterous reference to a narrative which he had thus far left untold—the narrative of his adventures on the Continent.
"I have a great deal to say, aunt," he replied.
"I have not yet told you of my discoveries abroad."
Lady Janet instantly took the bait.
"I knew there was something forgotten," she said.
"You have been all this time in the house, and you have told me nothing.
Begin directly."
Patient Julian began.
CHAPTER XIV. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.
"I WENT first to Mannheim, Lady Janet, as I told you I should in my letter, and I heard all that the consul and the hospital doctors could tell me.
No new fact of the slightest importance turned up.
I got my directions for finding the German surgeon, and I set forth to try what I could make next of the man who performed the operation.
On the question of his patient's identity he had (as a perfect stranger to her) nothing to tell me.
On the question of her mental condition, however, he made a very important statement.
He owned to me that he had operated on another person injured by a shell-wound on the head at the battle of Solferino, and that the patient (recovering also in this case) recovered—mad.
That is a remarkable admission; don't you think so?"
Lady Janet's temper had hardly been allowed time enough to subside to its customary level.
"Very remarkable, I dare say," she answered, "to people who feel any doubt of this pitiable lady of yours being mad.
I feel no doubt—and, thus far, I find your account of yourself, Julian, tiresome in the extreme.
Go on to the end.
Did you lay your hand on Mercy Merrick?"
"No."
"Did you hear anything of her?"
"Nothing.
Difficulties beset me on every side.
The French ambulance had shared in the disasters of France—it was broken up.
The wounded Frenchmen were prisoners somewhere in Germany, nobody knew where.
The French surgeon had been killed in action. His assistants were scattered—most likely in hiding.