THE CRY HAD, as we have said, roused the traveler. He leaped out, shut the door carefully after him, and looked uneasily around.
The first object which he beheld was the young man standing there in alarm. The lightning, which flashed incessantly, enabled him to examine him from head to foot, a practice which seemed habitual with the traveler when any unknown person or thing met his eye. He was a youth of sixteen or seventeen years old, little, thin, and muscular. His black eyes, which he fixed boldly on any object which attracted his attention, wanted mildness, but had a certain kind of beauty; his nose, small and turned up, his thin lip and projecting cheek-bones, betokened cunning and circumspection; and the strong curve of his chin announced firmness.
“Did you shout just now?” asked the traveler.
“Because?” repeated the traveler.
“Sir, there was a lady in the cabriolet.”
And the eyes of Balsamo darted on the carriage as if they could have penetrated its sides.
“There was a horse tied to the wheel.”
“Sir, the lady has fled on the horse.” The traveler, without uttering a word, sprang to the cabriolet, undrew the curtains, and a flash of lightning showed him it was empty.
“Sang du Christ!” shouted he, loud almost as the thunder which pealed at that moment.
Then he looked round, as if for some means of recovering the fugitives, but soon felt that it was vain.
“To try to overtake Djerid,” he muttered, “with a common horse, would be to hunt the gazelle with the tortoise; but I shall know where she is, unless—
He felt hurriedly in the pocket of his vest, and drew from it a little case, opened it, and took out of a folded paper a curl of black hair. At the sight of it the traveler's face lost its anxious expression, and his manner became calm—at least, in appearance.
“Well,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “well, and did she say nothing on leaving?”
“That she quitted you not through hatred, but fear; that she is a good Christian, and that you—”
“That you are an atheist and an infidel; that God has given you a last warning by the storm; that she understood that warning, and conjures you not to be deaf to it.”
A smile of contempt curled the lip of the traveler. “And this was all she said?”
“Well, let us speak of something else,” and all trace of disquietude passed away from the traveler's countenance.
The young man remarked all these emotions reflected on his face, with a curiosity indicating no deficiency on his side of powers of observation.
“And now,” said the traveler, “what is your name, my young friend?”
“Gilbert!—that is merely a baptismal name.”
“It is the name of our family.”
“Well! my dear Gilbert, Providence has sent you to my aid.”
“I shall be happy, if I can oblige you, sir.”
“Thank you. At your age one is obliging for the mere pleasure of the thing; but what I am going to ask is only a trifle—merely if you can direct me to a shelter for the night?”
“Why, in the first place, there is that rock under which I was sheltering just now.”
“Yes,” said the traveler, “but I should like something more like a house, where I could have a good supper and a good bed.”
“That would be very difficult to find.”
“Are we then so far from the next village?”
“It is called Pierrefitte, then?”
“Yes, sir; it is about a league and a half off.”
“A league and a half!—let us see—surely there is some habitation nearer?”
“There is the chateau of Taverney, about three hundred paces from this.”
“What, sir!” and the young man opened his eyes in astonishment.
“Why did you not say so at once?”
“The chateau of Taverney is not a hotel.”
“Why, by the Baron de Taverney, of course.”
“What is this Baron de Taverney?”
“He is the father of Mademoiselle Andree, sir.”
“Very pleasing intelligence, indeed; but I mean what sort of a man is he?”
“An old nobleman, sir, of sixty or sixty-five years of age; he once was rich, they say.”
“Ay, and poor now!—that is the history of all those old barons. Well, show me the way to this baron's abode.”
“To the Baron de Taverney's?” he asked, in alarm.
“He will not receive a gentleman in need of shelter? —Is he a bear, your baron?”
“Dame!” said the young man, with an expression which said plainly, “not much unlike one.”
“Never mind, I'll run the risk.”
“Remember, I do not advise it.”
“Bah!” said the traveler, “bear as he is, he won't eat me!”
“No—but he may shut the door in your face.”
“Then I'll break it open; so, if you refuse to be my guide—”
The traveler leaped into the cabriolet and brought from it a little lantern. The young man hoped, as it was not lighted, that he should be obliged to open the carriage, and that then its interior would be disclosed. But the traveler did nothing of the kind; he put the lantern into Gilbert's hand.
“What shall I do with it, sir?”
“It will light you on the way, while I lead the horses.”
“Oh, you have a fire in the carriage?”
“And in my pocket,” replied the traveler.
“But in this rain the tinder won't kindle.”
“Open the lantern,” said the traveler, smiling.
“Hold your hat over my hands.”
Gilbert obeyed, regarding with curiosity what followed, for he knew no other means of procuring a light than with a flint and tinder.
The traveler took from his pocket a very small silver case, drew from it a match, which he rubbed in some sort of inflammable paste, and it kindled instantly, with a slight crackling.
Gilbert started; the traveler smiled at his surprise, which was natural enough at that time, when phosphorus was only known to a few chemists, who kept the secret for their own advantage. The candle in the lantern being lighted by the match, he put up the little case. The young man followed his movements with greedy eyes; it was evident he would have given a great deal for such a treasure.
“Now that we have light, lead on.”
“Follow now, then, sir;” and Gilbert advanced, while his companion, taking the horse by the bit, dragged him after.
The weather was now not so bad, the rain had ceased, and the thunder was only heard muttering at a distance. The traveler seemed to wish for more conversation.
“You know this baron, then, my good fellow?”
“Certainly, sir, since I have lived in his house from my infancy.”
The young man started and colored with anger at the word master —“I am not a servant, sir,” said he.
“Well, but you are surely something or other?”
“I am the son of an old tenant of the baron's; my mother nursed Mademoiselle Andree.”
“I understand; being the young lady's foster-brother—for I presume she is young—you live at free quarters in the house.”
Now in the traveler's last words there—was something like two questions, but Gilbert avoided any reply to that which concerned himself. The traveler seemed to observe this, and gave his interrogations another turn.
“How did you happen to be out during such weather?”
“I was under a rock near the road.”
“'Le Contrat Social,' by Rousseau.”
The traveler looked at the young man with surprise.
“Did you get that book in the baron's library?”
“No, sir; from a peddler. They roam this way now and then, and bring us some tolerably good books.”
“Who told you 'Le Contrat Social' was a good book?”
“I soon found that out, as I read it.”
“Have you read bad books, then, that you know the difference so well?”
“Why, 'Le Sofa,' 'Tanza'i,' and 'Neadarne,' and books of that description.”
“But where the deuce did you get such books?”
“And how does the baron get new novels in this den of his?”
“They are sent him from Paris.”
“So this poor baron spends his money on that sort of trash?”
“By one of his friends, a great nobleman.”
“A great nobleman! Do you know his name?”
“I take it for granted he does not leave such books in Mademoiselle Andree's way?”
“Indeed, sir, he leaves them in everybody's way.”
“Is Mademoiselle Andree of your opinion,” asked the traveler, with a sly smile, “that they are bad?”
“She does not read them, sir,” replied Gilbert, dryly.
The traveler was silent for a minute—this character, a singular mixture of shame and boldness, of good and evil, interested him in spite of himself.
“And why did you read those books when you knew they were bad?”
“Because I did not know when I began them.”
“And nevertheless you went on?”
“They taught me things I did not know before.”
“It teaches me things that I have guessed.”
“Why, that men are brothers—that societies in which there are serfs or slaves are ill constituted—that one day we shall all he equal.”
“Oh, ho!” said the traveler. There was a short silence.
“So my good fellow,” continued the traveler in a low voice, “you wish to be instructed?”
“Yes, sir, that is my most ardent wish.”
“And what do you wish to learn?”
“To raise myself in the world.”
“And how high would you rise?”
Gilbert hesitated. No doubt he had his mind made up on that point, but it was evidently a secret, and he would not reveal it.
“As high as man can rise,” he replied.
“Well, have you studied anything?”
“Nothing. How can I study, not being rich, and living at Taverney?”
“Then you know nothing of mathematics?”'
“No; I know only how to read and write—but I shall know all those things.”
“Strange creature!” muttered the traveler.
“And then—!” murmured Gilbert, speaking to himself.
They had now proceeded for about a quarter of an hour; the rain had ceased, and the earth sent up those odoriferous exhalations which in spring follow a great storm.
Gilbert seemed reflecting—all at once he said, “Sir, do you know the cause of storms?”
“You know the cause of the thunderbolt?”
The traveler smiled. “It is the meeting of two streams of the electric fluid—one from the clouds, the other from the earth.”
Gilbert sighed. “I do not understand that,” said he.
Perhaps the traveler would have explained the matter more clearly, but just then a light appeared through the trees.
“Ah! what is that?” asked the stranger.
“Yes; this is the gate of the back entrance.”
“And do you think the gate of Taverney, sir, can be opened with a push?”
“Is it a fortified place, then? Knock.”
Gilbert approached the gate, and timidly gave one knock.
“Pardieu! they will never hear that. Knock loudly!”
Nothing, indeed, indicated that Gilbert's knock had been heard —all was silent.
“You must take the responsibility upon yourself, sir, then,” said Gilbert.
“Don't be troubled about that.”
Gilbert hesitated no longer—left the knocker, and pulled a string which made a bell sound so loud, one might have heard it a mile off.
“Ma fou! if your baron does not hear that,” said the traveler, “he must be deaf.”
“Mahon? That is no doubt a compliment from your baron to his friend the Duc de Richelieu?”
“I don't know what you mean, sir.”
“Mahon was the last place taken by the marshal.”
“Oh, sir, I told you I know nothing,” and Gilbert sighed again.
These sighs revealed to the stranger some hidden ambition, some secret cause of pain.
A step was heard. “Here is some one at last,” said the stranger.
“It is Master la Brie,” said Gilbert.
The gate opened, but La Brie, taken by surprise at seeing the stranger and the carriage when he expected no one but Gilbert, would have shut it again.
“Excuse me, my friend, but I have come here purposely, and you must not shut the door in my face.”
“But, sir, I must tell the baron that an unexpected visitor—
“Never mind—I shall run the risk of his looking a little cross at me; but he shall not turn me out, I can tell you, until I have got warmed, dried, and fed. They say you have good wine in this part of the country—do you happen to know?”
La Brie, instead of replying, was going to make further resistance, but it was in vain; the traveler pushed in, and Gilbert closed the gate after him, the two horses and carriage being in the avenue. La Brie, seeing himself vanquished, proceeded as quickly as his old limbs would permit toward the house, to announce his own defeat, shouting with all his strength, “Nicole Legay, Nicole Legay!”
“Who is this Nicole?” asked the stranger, calmly making his way to the house.
“Nicole Legay, sir?” replied Gilbert, with symptoms of some inward emotion.
“Yes—she whom Master la Brie is calling!”
“Mademoiselle Andree's waiting-maid, sir.”
In the meantime, in answer to the calls of La Brie, a light appeared under the trees, borne by a beautiful young girl.
“What do you want, La Brie? What is all this fuss?” asked she.
“Quick, Nicole,” cried the quivering voice of the old man, “run and tell the baron a strange gentleman is come to ask shelter.”
Nicole did not wait to be told twice, but flew off toward the chateau so quickly that in a moment she was out of sight.
As to La Brie, having thus satisfied himself that the baron should not be taken by surprise, he stopped and took breath.
The message soon produced an effect. A sharp commanding voice was heard from the house, repeating, with an accent by no means indicating a wish to be hospitable—“A strange gentleman? Who is he?—people don't come in that way without sending up their names!”
“Is it the baron himself?” asked he who was the cause of all the disturbance.
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the poor frightened old man, “you hear what he says?”
“Yes. I forgot to ask it, sir.”
“Say, the Baron Joseph Balsamo. Our titles being the same, he will perhaps not be so angry.”
La Brie, a little emboldened by the rank of the stranger, announced him as he requested.
“Well,” grumbled the voice from the house, “since he is there, he must come in. Here, sir—this way—this way.”
The stranger advanced quickly; but just as he reached the foot of the stone steps leading up to the door, he turned to see whether Gilbert were there or not. Gilbert had disappeared.
