WHEN GILBERT returned to consciousness, he was in no small degree surprised to find himself placed as he was, with a young lady watching him anxiously.
This young lady was about five-and-twenty, with large gray eyes, a nose slightly retrousse, cheeks embrowned by a southern sun, and a delicately formed little mouth, which added to the naturally cheerful and laughing expression of her face something of circumspection and finesse. Her neck and arms, which were beautifully formed, were displayed to advantage by a closely-fitting bodice of violet-colored velvet with golden buttons, while the skirt of her dress of gray silk was so enormously wide as to fill almost the entire carriage.
Gilbert continued for some time to gaze on this face, which looked on his smilingly and with much interest, and he could scarcely persuade himself that he was not in a dream.
“Well, my poor fellow,” said the lady, “are you not better now?”
“Where am I?” asked he, languidly.
“You are in safety now, my little fellow!” replied the lady, who spoke with a strong southern accent; “but just now you were in great danger of being crushed under the wheels of my carriage. What could have happened to you, to make you fall in that manner just in the middle of the highway?”
“I was overcome by weakness, madame, from having walked too much.”
“Then you have been some time on the road?”
“Since yesterday, at four in the afternoon.”
“And how far have you walked?”
“I think about eighteen leagues.”
“It is a chateau, situated between Pierrefitte and Bar-le-Duc.”
“But you have scarcely had time to eat on the way?”
“I not only had not time, but I had not the means.”
“So that since yesterday you have eaten nothing?”
“Only a few mouthfuls of bread, which I brought with me.”
“Poor fellow! but why did you not beg something?”
“Because I am proud, madame,” said he, smiling scornfully.
“Proud! It is all very fine to be proud; but when one is dying of hunger—”
The lady looked at the sententious speaker with something like admiration.
“But who are you, my friend,” said she, “who speak in this style?”
“Ah!” said the lady, still more surprised.
Gilbert felt that he had produced an effect, and felt as if he were another Rousseau.
“You are very young to wander about in this way,” continued the lady.
“I was left, deserted and alone, in an old chateau, which the family had abandoned. I did as they had done—I abandoned it in my turn.”
“The world is wide; there is room for all.”
“And you lost your purse? Was it well filled?”
“There was only one crown in it,” said he, divided between the shame of confessing his poverty and the fear of naming a large sum, which might have excited the suspicion that it had not been fairly obtained.
“One crown for such a journey! Why, it would scarcely have been sufficient to purchase bread for two days; and the distance! good heavens! from Bar-le-Duc to Paris is nearly sixty-five leagues!”
“I never counted the leagues, madame; I only said, I must get to Paris.”
“And, thereupon, you set out, my poor simpleton?”
“Good as they are, they failed, you see.”
“Oh! it was not my legs—it was hope which failed me.”
“Why, indeed, you looked before you fell as if in great despair.”
“What was passing in your mind? You struck your forehead with your clenched hand, and tore out your hair by handfuls.”
“Indeed, madame?” asked Gilbert, rather embarrassed.
“Oh! I am certain of it; and it was that, I think, which prevented you hearing or seeing the carriage.”
Gilbert's instinct told him that he might increase his consequence, and still more awaken the interest of the lady by telling the whole truth.
“I was, indeed, in despair,” said he.
“And about what?” said the lady.
“Because I could not keep up with a carriage which I was following.”
“Indeed,” said the young lady, smiling, “this is quite a romance. Is there love in the case?”
All Gilbert's resolution could not prevent himself from blushing.
“And what carriage was it, my little Roman?”
“A carriage in the train of the dauphiness.”
“What do you tell me! Is the dauphiness before us?”
“I thought her scarcely yet at Nancy. Are no honors paid her on the way, that she advances so rapidly?”
“ Oh, yes, madame; but her royal highness seems to have some reason for being in haste.”
“Why, she said at first she would stay two or three hours at Taverney, and she only stayed three-quarters of an hour.”
“Do you know if she received any letters from Paris?”
“I saw a gentleman in a dress covered with embroidery, who had one in his hand as he entered.”
“Did you hear his name mentioned?”
“No; I merely know that he is the governor of Strasbourg.”
“What! the Count de Stainville, brother-in-law to the Duke de Choiseul! Horrible! Faster, postilion, faster!”
A vigorous lash was the reply, and Gilbert felt the speed of the carriage increase.
“But she must stop to breakfast.” said the lady, as if speaking to herself, “and then we shall pass her. Postilion, what is the next town?”
“Where shall we change horses?”
“Well, drive on, and if you see a train of carriages on the road before us, let me know.”
While the lady was exchanging these words with the postilion, Gilbert had again nearly fainted. When she once more turned toward him, he was pale, and his eyes were closed.
“Poor child!” said she, “he is fainting again. It is my fault; I made him talk when he was dying of hunger, instead of giving him something to eat.”
She took from the pocket of the carriage a richly-carved flask, with a little silver goblet hanging round its neck by a chain, and poured out some of the contents for Gilbert. On this occasion he did not require to be asked twice.
“Now,” said the lady, “eat a biscuit; in an hour or so you shall breakfast more solidly.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Gilbert, gladly taking the biscuit, as he had done the wine.
“As you have now recovered a little strength,” said she, “tell me, if you are disposed to make a confidant of me, what induced you to follow a carriage in the train of the dauphiness?”
“Well, madame, you shall hear the truth. I was living with the Baron de Taverney when her royal highness came. She commanded him to follow her to Paris; he obeyed. I was an orphan' and consequently nobody thought of me; they left me there, without food and without money. So I resolved, since everybody was going to Versailles, with the assistance of good horses and fine, coaches, I, with the assistance of only my legs, would go to Versailles, and as soon as the horses. But fate was against me! If I had not lost my money, I should have had something to eat last night; and if I had eaten last night, I should have overtaken them this morning.”
“Very well. You showed courage, and I like that; but you forgot that at “Versailles people cannot live on courage alone.”
“But in that respect Paris resembles Versailles exceedingly.”
“If courage will not support me, labor will!”
“A good answer, my little fellow! But what sort of labor? Your hands do not seem those of a workman or porter.”
“I think you seem to know a great deal already.”
“Yes, for I know that I know nothing!” replied Gilbert, remembering the aphorism of Socrates.
“And may I ask, my young friend, what branch of study you would choose?”
“ I think, madame, that the best is that which teaches man to be most useful to his fellows. Besides, man is so frail a being, that he should learn the cause of his weakness, in order that he may know his strength. I should like to know, some day, why my stomach prevented my legs from carrying me any farther this morning; and if it was not that weakness of my stomach which summoned up the phantoms which distressed my brain.”
“Really, you would make an excellent physician; and you speak already most learnedly on the science of medicine. In ten years you shall have me for a patient.”
“I shall try to deserve that honor, madame.”
They had now reached the place where they were to change horses. The young lady asked for information respecting the dauphiness, and found that she had passed through that place a quarter of an hour “before; she intended to stop at Vitry, to change horses and to breakfast.
A fresh postilion took the place of the former one. The lady allowed him to leave the village at the usual speed; but when they had got a little beyond the last house—
“Postilion,” said she, “will you undertake to come up with the carriages of the dauphiness?”
“Diable! they are going full trot.”
“Yes; but if you were to go at a gallop?”
“If you had said so at first,” replied he, “we should have been a quarter of a league farther by this time.”
“Well, here is a crown on account; make up for lost time.”
The postilion's arm was stretched back, the lady's forward, and their hands met. The horses received a sharp lash, and the carriage started off like the wind.
During the change of horses, Gilbert had alighted and washed his face and hands at a fountain, had smoothed down his hair, which was very thick, and had altogether improved his appearance very much.
“In truth,” said the lady to herself, “he is handsome enough for a physician; “and she smiled.
Having finished her dialogue with the postilion, she turned once more to Gilbert, whose paradoxes and sententious humor amused her exceedingly. From time to time she interrupted herself in a burst of laughter, which his philosophizing caused her, to lean out of the carriage and look anxiously before her. They had gone about a league in this way, when she uttered a cry of joy—she had caught a sight of the last wagons of the dauphiness's train as they were slowly ascending a steep hill, and now there appeared in advance of them about twenty carriages, from which many of the travelers had got out and were walking beside them. Gilbert slipped out his head also, desirous to catch a glimpse of Mademoiselle de Taverney in the midst of the crowd of pigmies, and thought he discovered Nicole by her high cap.
“And now, madame,” said the postilion, “what must we do?”
“Get before them! But you know we cannot pass the carriage of the dauphiness.”
“Because it is expressly forbidden. Peste! pass the king's horses! I should be sent to the galleys.”
“Now listen, my good fellow; manage it as you please, but I must positively get before those carriages.”
“I thought you belonged to the train of her royal highness?” said Gilbert, inquiringly.
“It is very proper to wish for information,” replied she, “but we should not ask indiscreet questions.”
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said he, reddening.
“Well, postilion, what are we to do?”
“Why, faith! this—keep behind till we reach Vitry, and then, if her highness stops, obtain her permission to go on before her.”
“Ay; but then it would be asked who I was—I should have to tell. No, no, that will not do; we must find out some other way.”
“Madame,” said Gilbert, “if I might give an opinion—”
“Yes, yes, my young friend; if you have any good advice., give it.”
“Could we not take some by-road which would bring us round to Vitry, and so get before the dauphiness without having been wanting in respect to her?”
“Excellent! The boy is right!” cried the young lady. “Postilion, is there a by-road?”
“Where you like, provided you leave the dauphiness behind.”
“There is, in fact, a by-road leading round Vitry, and joining the high road again at Lachaussee.”
“That is it! that is the very thing!” cried the lady.
“But, madame, if I take that road, you must double the pay.”
“Two louis-d'ors for you, if we get to Lachaussee before the dauphiness.”
“Madame is not afraid, then, of her carriage being broken?”
“I care for nothing! If it breaks, I shall proceed on horseback.”
And, turning to the right, they entered a cross-road full of deep ruts, bordered by a little river, which falls into the Marne between Lachaussee and Martigny.
The postilion kept his word; he did all that human powers could do to break the carriage, but, at the same time, to arrive before the dauphiness. A dozen times Gilbert was thrown into the lady's arms, and a dozen times she into his. Intimacy springs up quickly from jolting on in the loneliness of a carriage; and, after two hours' traveling on this by-road, it seemed to Gilbert as if he had known his companion ten years, and she, on her part, would have sworn she had known him since his birth. About eleven o'clock they came again on the high road between Vitry and Chalons. A courier whom they met told them that the dauphiness was not only staying to breakfast at Vitry, but that she meant to take two hours' repose. He added that he had been sent forward to desire those who attended to the horses to have them in readiness between three and four o'clock. This news filled the lady with joy. She gave the postilion the two louis-d'ors which she promised him; and, turning to Gilbert, “So now,” said she, “we shall be able to dine at the next stopping-place!”
