ON THE SAME evening, when the events we have spoken of took place, a not less strange affair took place in the college of the Abbe Portier.
Sebastian Gilbert disappeared at about six in the evening, and, notwithstanding every effort made, could not be found.
Every one was questioned, but none could tell.
Aunt Angelica alone, as she left the church, where she had been fixing the benches, had seen him go down the little street between the church and prison, apparently toward the fields.
This did not make the abbe less uneasy, but, on the contrary, more unhappy. He was not unaware that strange hallucinations sometimes seized young Gilbert whenever the woman he called his mother appeared. And more than once, the abbe had followed him, when under the influence of this vertigo he seemed inclined to go too far into the fields, where he was afraid he would be lost, and on such occasions would send the best runners of the college after him.
The child had always been found panting, and almost exhausted, leaning against some tree, or resting on some bank beside some beautiful hedge.
Sebastian, however, had never had this vertigo late in the day. No one had ever been obliged to run after him at night.
Something extraordinary, therefore, must nave happened. But the abbe could not fancy what.
To be more completely satisfied than the abbe, we will follow Sebastian Gilbert, and find out whither he went.
Aunt Angelica was not mistaken. She had seen Sebastian Gilbert hurrying in the shade, and seeking as rapidly as possible to reach the park. Thence he had gone to the pheasantry, and had proceeded down a lane which led towards Haramont.
But Piton went out of one side of the village, as Sebastian entered the other.
Pitou, in the simplicity of his nature, did not see the use of keeping a door closed, whether one be out or in. Sebastian knew Pitou's room as well as he knew his own. He looked for a flint and steel, lighted the candle, and waited.
Sebastian was in too great agitation, however, to wait quietly or long.
As time passed, he went to a rickety table, on which was pen, ink and paper. Oil the first page were the names and surnames of the thirty-three men who formed the effective force of the national guard of Haramont, and who were under Pitou's orders.
Gilbert carefully lifted this sheet, which was the chef d'oeuvre of the commandant's writing, for he did not disdain, in order that things might be correctly done, to play the orderly sergeant.
“I am about to tell you that eight days ago I overheard a conversation between the Abbe Fortier and the Vicar of Villers-Cotterets. It seems the Abbe Fortier connives with aristocrats at Paris, and told the vicar that a counter revolution was being prepared.
“So we heard about the queen who put on a black cockade and trampled the tricolour in the dust.
“This threat of a counter revolution, according to what we heard about the events that followed the banquet, made me uneasy on my father's account, for as you know he is opposed to the aristocrats. Things now, though, are far worse.
“The vicar returned to see the curate, and, as I was anxious about my father, I thought I would hear all about what I got an inkling of by accident.
“It seems the people went to Versailles, and massacred many persons, among them M. Georges dc Charny.
“'Let us speak low, lest we annoy little Gilbert. His father was there, and may have been among the victims.'
“You see, Pitou, I heard no more.
“I slipped out of my hiding-place, unseen, went through the garden to the Castle Square, and hurried to ask you to take me back to Paris, which I know you would willingly do if you were here.
“As, however, you may not be back for some time, having gone probably to fix your nets in the forest, which will keep you till morning, I am too anxious to wait.
“I will then go alone. Be at ease, for I know the way. Besides, I have yet two louis left of the money my father sent me, and I will take a place in the first carriage I meet.
“P. S.—I have written a long letter, first, to explain to you why I go, and in the second, because I hoped you would return before I finished.
“But you did not. Good-bye until we meet again. If my father be unhurt, I will return.
“Make the Abbe Fortier easy about me, or at least do not do so until to-morrow, lest he should pursue me.
“Well, as you will not come, adieu.”
As Sebastian knew how economical his friend Pitou was, he put out the candle and left.
The lad then, entirely engrossed by his undertaking, set out for Lorgny. He passed the village and reached the broad ravine which led thence to Valenciennes, and which drains the ponds of Walue: at Valenciennes, he reached the high road, and when in the plain began to talk more rapidly. He did not slacken his pace or leave the centre until he came to a brief eminence where the two roads to Paris and Cressy divided.
When coming from Paris he had not noticed the separation, and now did not remember which he should take.
He looked around to see if anything would tell him which he should wake. This he could have done by day, but it was impossible at night. Just then he heard the gallop of two horses.
He prepared to stop and ask the wayfarers, and accordingly advanced to address the first.
The latter, seeing a man leave the roadside, put his hand in his holster.
“Sir,” said he, “I am not a robber, but a poor lad, whom recent events at Versailles force to go to Paris to look for his father. I do not know which road to take. Tell me, and you will do me a great favour.”
“Sir,” he said,” do you recognise that lad?''
“How, sir, do you not recognise young Sebastian Gilbert, who is at school with the Abbe Fortier?”
“Yes, who often goes with Pitou to the farm of Mademoiselle Catherine.”
Turning round, he said, “It is you, Sebastian?”
“Yes, M. Isidor,” said the child, who knew to whom he spoke.
“Tell me, then, why are you here at this hour?”
“I am on my way to Paris, to see if my father be dead or alive.”
“Alas! child,” said the gentleman sadly, “I go for the same purpose, but am certain of all.”
“One of my brothers, George, was killed yesterday, at Versailles.”
“Well, my child,” said the latter, “since we go for the same purpose, we must not separate, for you, like me, must go to Paris.”
“I will not go far, for to-morrow I will take a seat in the first carriage I find, and go as far as possible to Paris in it.”
“But if you meet none?”—” Then I must go on foot.”
“You can do something better than that; get down, Baptiste, and help Sebastian up.”
“Thank you, it is useless,” and, active as a boy, he sprang up behind the count.
The three men and the two horses galloped off, and disappeared behind the hill of Grand Ville.
They continued on to Daumartin, which they reached at six o'clock.
All needed refreshments, and, besides, it was necessary to find post-horses.
After having left Daumartin at noon, they reached the Tuileries at six in the afternoon.
There a delay took place. M. de Lafayette had posted the guards, and having taken charge of the king's safety, in these troublous times, punctiliously discharged his duty.
When Charny, however, mentioned his name, and his brother's, he was introduced into the Swiss court-yard with Sebastian, and thence they went into the central yard.
Sebastian wished at once to go to the house in the Rue St. Honore where he had left his father, but Charny told him that as the doctor was now royal physician, he would be found more probably in the palace than elsewhere.
Isidor was introduced by the state staircase, and an usher made him wait in a saloon hung with green cloth, dimly lighted by two candelabras.
The usher went at once to ask for the Count de Charny and the doctor. After about ten minutes he came back and said the Count de Charny was with the queen.
Nothing had happened to the doctor, and it was thought that he was with the king.
Sebastian breathed freely. He had net any occasion to dread anything, for his father was unhurt and safe.
“The Viscomte de Charny,” said an usher.
“Wait for me. Sebastian, at least until your father comes. Remember, I must be responsible to him for you.”
Isidor followed the usher, and Sebastian again sat down.
At ease in relation to his father's health and about himself, for he was sure he would be forgiven by the doctor for what he had done, he began to think of the Abbe Fortier and of Pitou, and of the anxiety both would feel on account of his letter.
He did not see how, after all the great delay they met with on the road, it had happened that Pitou had not overtaken them with his long legs.
By the simple association of ideas with Pitou, he thought of his usual home, of the tall trees, the many pathways, the blue horizon, and then the strange visions he so often had had beneath the old trees of the vast forest.
He thought of her he had so often seen in his dreams, and but once only, he fancied, in reality, in the wood of Satory, where she appeared and disappeared, like a cloud borne away in a calash by a magnificent steed.
He remembered the deep emotion the apparition always caused, and, half lost in that dream, murmured, “Mother! mother! mother!”
Suddenly the door through which Isidor had gone opened again, and a female form appeared.
So perfectly was the figure in harmony with the thoughts that flitted by, that, seeing his dream realized, the lad trembled.
His feeling, however, was far more intense when he saw both the shadow and reality.
The shadow of dreamland, the reality of Satory.
He sprang at once to his feet.
His lips opened, his eyes rolled, and his pupils expanded.
He panted, but sought in vain to speak.
The woman passed proudly, majestically by, and seemed not to notice him.
She crossed the hall diagonally, opened the door opposite to that through which she had entered, and disappeared in the corridor.
Sebastian saw that he was about to lose, and hurried after, her. He looked carefully, as if to be sure that she had gone from the door she had entered to the one whence she passed, and overtook her before her silken robe had disappeared.
Hearing his steps, she had walked quickly, as if she feared pursuit.
Sebastian hurried, but the corridor was long and dark. He was afraid his vision would desert him.
She, hearing his footsteps approach, hurried away the more rapidly, but looked back.
Sebastian uttered an exclamation of joy. It was indeed she.
The woman, seeing the lad follow her, she knew not why, hurried to the ladder, and rushed down the steps.
Scarcely had she descended a single story, than Sebastian stood at the top, and cried, “Lady! Lady!”
The voice filled her heart with strange sensations: it seemed that a blow half pleasant, half painful, had struck her heart, and passing through her veins, had filled her bosom with emotion.
Understanding neither the appeal nor the emotion, she increased her gait, and finally ran.
The Lid was, however, too near for her to escape, and they reached a carriage together, the door of which a servant kept open. She sprang in, and sat down.
Before, however, the door could be shut, Sebastian got between her and the servant, seized her skirt, and kissing it passionately, exclaimed, “Ah, lady! lady!”
The woman then looked at the child who had first frightened her, said, in a gentler tone than usual, but yet maintaining something of fear: “Well, why do you follow me? why did you call me? tell me what you wish for me to do?”
“I wish, I wish to kiss you,” said our panting child; and low enough to be hoard only by her, added, “I wish to call you mother!”
The young woman uttered a cry, took the head of her child in her hands, and as if by a sudden revelation, which made her know some great mystery, pressed her burning lips on his brow.
Then, as if she feared some one would deprive her of the child she had so strangely found, she drew him into the carriage, put him on the other side of her, and closed the glass of the door, which she pulled to with her own hands.
“Drive to my house, No. 9, Rue Coq-Heron,” said she, “first door from Rue Platriere.”
Turning to the child, she said: “What is your name?”
“Here, here, Sebastian, to my heart!”
Then, sinking back as if she were about to faint, she said: “Oh, what new sensation is this? Can it be happiness?”
The whole drive was but one exchange of kisses between mother and son.
This child, for never for a moment did she doubt that it was hers, which had been taken away on that fearful night of anguish and disgrace: this child, which had disappeared without the ravisher having left any trace but the print of his feet in the snow; this child, whom she had hated and cursed, because she had not heard its first cry, its first moan; whom she had sought, besought, and asked for everywhere; whom her brother had followed, with Gilbert, beyond the seas; whom for fifteen years she had regretted, and despaired ever meeting; of whom she thought no more, but as one loved and dead; at the moment she least expected, it was miraculously found, and, strange to say, himself recognised and pursued her, calling her mother, pressed her to his heart, without having ever seen her, loved her with true filial love as she him with a mother's heart. Prom his lip, pure from the contamination of any kiss, she regains all the pleasures of a wasted life, and feels it when she first kisses him.
There is, then, above the head of men, something more than the void in which worlds revolve. There is in life something more than chance and fate.
She had said Rue Coq-Heron, No. 9, first door from Rue Platriere. It was a strange coincidence that after the lapse of so many years brought the child to the very spot where he was born, where he drew the first breath of life, and whence he had been taken by his father.
This little house, bought by old Taverney, when some ease had been engrafted in his family by the high favour with which the queen honoured him, was kept in order by an old porter, who apparently had been bought with the house. It was a resting—-place to the countess when in Paris.
Six o'clock struck as the porte cochere opened to the driver's call, and they were at the door of the house.
Giving the driver a piece of money twice the amount of his fare, she rushed, followed by the child, into the house, the door of which she closed carefully.
At the door of the saloon she paused. It was lighted cheerfully by a light which burned in the grate, and by two candles on the mantlepiece.
Andree drew her son to a kind of chaise longue, on which were concentrated the double light of the candles and of the fire.
With an explosion of joy, in which, however, there yet lingered something of doubt, she said: “My child, is it indeed you?”
“My mother!” said Sebastian, and his heart expanded into dew-like tenderness, as he leaned against Andree's beating bosom.
“And here! here!” as she looked around and saw that she was in the same room in which she gave birth to him, and saw with terror the door whence he had been taken.
“Here!” said Sebastian, “what means that, mother?”
“That you were born here, where we sit; and I thank the mercy of God, which, after fifteen years, has so miraculously restored you.”
“Yes, miraculously; had I not feared for my father's life, I would not alone and at night have set out for Paris. I would not have doubted which of the two roads to take. I would not have waited on the high road and asked M. Isidor de Charny. He would not have known and taken me to the palace of the Tuileries. I would not have seen you as you crossed the greenroom, and run after and joined you. I would not, in fine, have called you mother. It is a pleasant word to say.”
At the words, “Had I not feared for my father's life,” Andree felt a sharp pain run through her heart. She shut her eyes and drew back.
At the words, “M. Isidor would not have known and taken me to the palace,” her eyes opened, and she thanked God with them. That her husband's brother should restore her child was indeed strangely miraculous.
At the words, “I would not have called you mother. It is a pleasant word to say,” she again remembered her happiness, and clasping Sebastian again to her heart, said: “Yes, you are right: there is, perhaps, but one more so, 'My child, my child!'”
There was a moment of silence, during which she pressed her lips again and again on his brow.
Andree suddenly started up, and said, “It is impossible for all to be thus mysterious; you explained how you came hither, but have not told me how and why you knew and ran after me—why you called me mother?”
“Can I tell you that?” said Sebastian, looking at Andree with an ineffable expression. “I do not know myself. You talk of mystery; all that relates to me is mysterious.”
“But, then, something told you when I passed!”
“Yes, my heart.”—“Your heart?”
“Listen, mother, I am about to tell something strange.”
Andree drew yet nearer to her child, and looked up to heaven in thankfulness for the child thus restored to her.
“Let me tell you. I sometimes have strange dreams, which my father calls hallucinations.”
The name of Gilbert on her child's lips, pierced like a dagger through her heart.
“I have seen you twenty times, mother.”
“How so?”—” In the dreams of which I spoke just now.”
Andree thought of those strange dreams which had endangered her life, and to one of which Sebastian owed his existence.
“Do you fancy, mother, that even when in childhood I played with village children my impressions were like those of the rest, and related to real palpable things? As soon as I left the village, passed the last gardens, and went into the wood, I heard by me the rustling of a robe. I reached forth to grasp it, but my fingers closed in air, and the phantom left. Then, though invisible, it gradually became distinct, and a transparent vapour, like that with which Virgil surrounds the mother of AEneas when she appeared to him in Carthage. The vapour grew dense, and assumed human form, which was that of a woman gliding, rather than walking, over the ground. Then a strange, unknown, and irresistible power took hold of me, and I was borne into the depths of the forest, where I followed this phantom with open hands, without its pursuing, or my being ever able to overtake it, until it vanished away by degrees.
“It seemed to suffer as much as I did, that the will of heaven separated us, for as the phantom left it looked back, and when no longer sustained by its presence I sank exhausted on the ground.”
This kind of second life of Sebastian, this waking dream, was too much like what And roe had herself experienced for her not to recognise her son.
“Poor child,” said she, embracing him. “It was in vain that hatred separated us; God insensibly brought us together. Less happy, though, than you, I saw you neither in dreams nor in reality. “When, though, I passed you in the green room, a cold shudder seized me. When I heard your steps behind me something like dizziness occupied both my heart and mind. When you nailed me madame, I had nearly stopped, and almost fainted when you said mother. When you touched me I knew you.”
“Mother, mother, mother!” said Sebastian, as if to console Andree for not having heard that word for such a time.
“Yes, your mother!” said she, with a transport which it was impossible to describe.
“And now that we are met,” said the child, “since you are satisfied, we will never part again.”
Andree trembled. She had seized the present, and half closing her eyes to the past, neglected the future.
“My poor child,” said she, with a sigh, “I would indeed bless you, if you could work a miracle.”
“I do not know. What circumstances separated you from my father?”
“Whatever though they be, they will be effaced by my prayers, or, if need be, by my tears.”
“Listen,” said Sebastian. “One day my father said, 'Child, never speak to me of your mother,' and then I knew all the wrongs of the separation were on his side. Listen, my father adores me!”
The hands of Andree, which clasped her child's, loosened. The child seemed, and probably did, not notice it.
He continued: “I will prepare him to see you. I will say how happy you have made me; and I will take you by the hand, and say,' How beautiful she is!”'
Andree pushed him away, and rose.
The child looked on with amazement.
She was so pale that he was frightened.
The child now shrank back, for on her face were the terrible lines with which Raphael described fallen angels.
At those words, as when two clouds are driven together by the wind; the lightning fell.
“Why? you ask me why? Poor child, you know nothing!”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, firmly, “I ask why!”
“Well,” said Andree, who found it impossible to repress the pain of the serpent's wounds in her heart, “because your father is a base villain.”
Sebastian sprang from his seat, and stood erect before Andree.
“Do you speak thus of my father, madame? Of Dr. Gilbert, who has educated me, and to whom I owe every tiling: whom alone I know? I was wrong, madame; you cannot be my mother.”
“Listen: you can neither know, feel, nor judge.”
“No, no, I feel that I do not love you.”
Andree uttered a cry of agony.
Just then a noise was heard outside, the door opened, and a carriage stopped.
Such a shudder passed over Andree's limbs, that it was transfused to his soul.
“Wait,” said she, “and be silent!”
Perfectly subdued, Sebastian waited.
The door of the antechamber opened, and footsteps were heard.
Without eyes, ears, or sound, Andree stood like a statue.
“Whom shall I announce to the countess?”
“The Count de Charny, and ask if the countess will see me.”
“Ah!” said Andree, “go into that room, child, into that room. He must not see you, or know that you live.”
She pushed the terrified boy into the next room, and shut the door.
As she did so she said: “Remain there. When he is gone I will tell you,—no, no, I will kiss you, and then you will really know I am your mother.”
Sebastian replied with a kind of sigh.
At that moment the door opened, and then the old porter appeared. The countess saw a human form behind him.
“Show the count in,” said she, in as firm a tone as she could.
The old man withdrew, and, hat in hand, the count appeared in the room.
As he was in mourning for his brother, who had been killed two days before, the count was dressed in black.
His mourning, like Hamlet's, too, was not on his face, but in his heart, and his pale countenance attested the tears he had shed, and his suffering.
The countess saw all this at one glance. Handsome faces even look better in tears. Never had Charny looked so well.
She shut her eyes, and threw her head back, as if to give herself time to breathe, and placed her hand on her heart, which felt as if it would break.
When she opened her eyes, but a second after she had closed them, she saw Charny in the same place.
“Pardon me, madame, but is my unexpected presence an intrusion? I am ready, and, as the carriage waits, can go as I came.”
“Not so,” said Andree, quickly. “I knew you were safe, but am not the less rejoiced to see you after the terrible events that had occurred.”
“Then you were kind enough to ask about me?” said the count.
“Certainly. Yesterday, and this morning I heard you were at Versailles. They told me you were this evening with the queen.”
Were the last words intended as a reproach, or meant they nothing?
It was evident that the count himself did not know what they meant, and thought for a moment.
“Madame,” said he, “religious duty kept me yesterday and to-day at Versailles. I look on the duty as sacred, and that, in the queen's situation, took me, as soon as I could reach Paris, to her presence.”
Andree now sought to distinguish the real significance of his words.
Thinking that she really owed an answer to his first words, she said, “Yes, sir, I knew the terrible loss.”
“Yes, madame, as you say, the death of my brother is a terrible blow to me. You, luckily, cannot understand it, having known poor George so slightly. One thing would console me, if anything could, that poor George has died as Isidor will, as I will die, probably, doing his duty.”
The words, “as I will die, probably,” touched Andree deeply.
“Alas, sir, and do you then think affairs so desperate that other sacrifices of blood are needed to appease divine wrath?”
“I think, madame, the final hour of kings, if not come, is near at hand, and that if the monarchy falls, it will be accompanied by all who have shared its splendour.”
“True, and when the day conies, sir, believe it will find me, like you, prepared for every devotion.”
“Ah! madame, you have, in by-gone days, given too strong proofs of devotion, that any, and least of all I, should doubt you in the future; and perhaps have I less reason to doubt yours than mine, which for the first time has hesitated to obey an order of the queen.”
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“When I came from Versailles, I received an order at once to present myself to the queen.”
“Ah!” said Andree, smiling sadly. “It is plain, like you, the queen sees the sad and mysterious future, and wishes to collect around her men on whom she can rely.”
“You are mistaken, madame; not to join me to, but to remove me from her, did she send for me.”
“To separate you from her?” said the countess, drawing a little nearer to the count.
“Excuse me,” said she, seeing that the count during the whole conversation yet stood at the door, “but I keep you standing.” She pointed to a chair.
As she spoke, she sunk back exhausted on the sofa Sebastian had left; she could stand no longer.
“Separate,” said she, with an emotion not devoid of joy, as she thought the queen and Charny about to be separated. “And why?”
“To go on a mission to the Count of Artois and the Duke of Bourbon, at Turin.”
Charny looked fixedly at Andree, and said at once, “No, madame.”
Andree grew so pale that Charny advanced towards her to aid her, but she recalled her strength as she saw him come.
“No!” added she, “no! you said no to an order of the queen.”
“I replied that at this moment I thought my presence more useful at Paris than at Turin, where any one could discharge the mission proposed as an honour to me. That I had another brother just arrived, whom I proposed to place at her majesty's service, and who was ready at once to set out in my place.”
“And certainly the queen was gratified at the proposition?” said Andree, with a degree of bitterness she could not conceal, and which did not escape Charny.
“No, madame; my refusal seemed to wound her deeply. I should have been forced to go, had not the king come in, and the matter been referred to him.”
“And the king sustained you!” said Andree, with an ironical smile. “The king is kind indeed, and, like you, thought you should remain at the Tuileries.”
“The king said my brother Isidor was well calculated for the mission, especially as, having come to court for the first time, and being almost unknown, his presence was not likely to be missed, and required the queen to exact me not to leave you at such a crisis.”
“Leave me! The king said not leave me!”
“I repeat his own words, madame. Glancing from the queen to me, he said, 'And where, too, is the Countess Charny?'
“'Sire,' said the queen, 'Madame de Charny left the palace about an hour ago.'
“'How?' said the king, 'the countess left the palace? But to return soon?' added the king.
“The queen replied, 'I think not.'
“'So the countess has gone. Whither, madame, do you know?'
“'I do not,' said the queen. 'When my friends leave me, I let them go, and never ask them whither.'
“'Ah!' said the king, 'some woman's quarrel. M. de Charny, I would speak with the queen. Await me in my room, and present me to your brother. He will start for Turin this very evening. I agree with you, De Charny; I need you, and will keep you.'
“I sent for my brother, who had come, and who awaited me in the green saloon.”
At the last word, Andree, who had almost forgotten Sebastian in her husband's story, remembered all that had passed between her son and herself, and looked sadly at the door of the room in which he was.
“Excuse me, madame,” said Charny; “I annoy you with matters with which you do not feel interested, and you doubtless wonder why I am here.”
“Not so, monsieur; what you have said interests me deeply: for your presence here, after all the fear I have felt for you, in thus proving you to be safe, cannot but please me. Go on then, sir; the king told you to await him, and you sent for your brother?”
“We went to the king, and as the mission was important, he spoke of that first. (He was not ten minutes behind us.) The object of the mission was to tell their royal highnesses what had taken place. A quarter of an hour after my brother was on the road. The king walked moodily about for awhile, and then pausing in front of me, said: 'Count, do you know what has taken place between the queen and countess?'
“'No, sire,' said I; 'something must have taken place, for I found the queen in a terrible humour towards her, and very unjustly, too, it seemed to me.'
“'At all events,' said the king, 'if the queen does not know where the countess is, you must find out.' I said I was hardly more informed than the queen, but that I knew you had a household in Rue Coq-Heron, whither you, without doubt, had gone. 'Go thither, count. I give you leave until tomorrow, provided you bring her back with you then.'”
Charny looked so fixedly at Andree, that, seeing she could not meet his glance, she closed her eyes.
“'Tell her,'“ said Charny, continuing to speak in the king's name, “'that I will have her here, even if I go myself for her, and find rooms, certainly not so large as those she had at Versailles, but large enough for man and wife.' Thus it was that I came at the king's instance. You will, I know, excuse me.”
“Ah! sir,” said Andree, rising quickly, and placing her hands in his, “can you doubt it?”
Charny seized her hands, and placed them to his lips. Andree cried out as if his lips had been hot iron, and sank on the sofa. Her hands were locked in his, so that she could not extricate them, and, without intending it, he was beside her. Having heard some noise in the next room, she hurried to the door so rapidly that the count, not knowing to what movement to attribute the brusquerie of her conduct, arose, and again was before her.
Charny leaned on the back of the sofa and sighed. Andree let her head rest on her hands; the sigh of Charny had torched the very depth of her heart. What then passed in the heart of the young woman is indescribable. Having been married for rears to a man whom she adored, without that man constantly occupied by another woman, being aware of the terrible sacrifice she made in marrying, she had, with the denial inspired by the double duty of a wife and subject, seen and borne all, and concealed all. But, for some time, it had seemed to her that some words of her husband were gentler, and some glances of the queen more stern, so that the impression was not lost on her. During the days which had rolled by, the terrible days full of terror to so many, alone, perhaps, of all the terrified courtiers, Andree had experienced some pleasant emotions; Charny seemed anxious about her, looked uneasily for her, and met her with joy: a light pressure of the hand communicated a sympathy unseen by those who surrounded them, and established a community of thought between them. These were delicious sensations, unknown to the icy frame and diamond heart which had ever experienced only the pain of love, and its unrequitedness.
All at once, just as the poor creature had regained her child, and again become a mother, something like the dawn of love was awakened on the horizon of a heart previously obscure and clouded. It was a strange coincidence, and proved that true happiness was not for her. The two circumstances destroyed the effect of each other; the return of the child depriving her for ever of the husband's love, and the love of the husband making that of the child impossible.
Charny could not see this when the cry escaped from Andree's lips, when she repelled his advances, and thrust him into an abyss, from which it seemed impossible for him to extricate himself. He thought it was produced by dislike. Not so, it was the effect of fear.
Charny sighed, and renewed the conversation where it had been abandoned.
“What, madame, must I say to the king?”
At the sound of his voice she quailed; then, lifting up her clear blue eyes, she said:
“Sir, tell his majesty that I have suffered so much since I belonged to the court, that the queen has had the kindness to permit me to retire, and I do so thankfully. I was not born to live in the world, and in solitude have always found rest, if not happiness. The happiest days of my life were those J passed as a girl in the Castle of Taverney, and later, those I spent in the convent of St. Denis, with that pure daughter of France known as Madame Louise. With your permission, sir, I will inhabit this pavilion, which is full of memories, which, though sad, have yet some soothing.”
The permission Andree asked was given by the count willingly, like a man not anxious to grant a prayer, but to obey an order.
“Then, madame, you have decided?''
“Yes, sir,” said Andree, gently, but firmly.
“And now, madame,” said he, “I have one favour to ask you, to be permitted to visit you here.”
Andree looked at Charny, with the clear blue eye ordinarily cold and impassive, but now full of surprise and amazement.
“Certainly, sir!” said she; “but as I see no one, when you are not required at the Tuileries, and have a few moments to spare, I shall always be happy to see you, if you will spare them to me.”
Charny had never seen so much charm in Andree's eye. He had never heard so much tenderness in her voice. Something penetrated his veins like the velvet tremor of a first kiss. Charny would have given a whole year to have sat by Andree, though she had previously repulsed him. Timid as a child, however, he dared not, without encouragement, do so.
Andree would have given, not a year, but an existence, to have seen the one from whom she had so long been separated by her side. Unfortunately, they did not know each other, and each was motionless.
Charny was the first to break the silence, which one capable alone of reading the heart could have translated.
“You say you have suffered much at court, madame. Has not the king always treated you with respect amounting to admiration, and the queen almost idolized you?”
“Ah! yes, sir, the king has ever been very kind to me.”
“Permit me to observe, madame, that you reply only to a part of my question; has the queen been less kind than the king?”
The lips of Andree closed, as if they would have refused an answer. She said:
“I make no charge against the queen, and would be unjust were I to refuse to do her full justice.”
“I say this, madame,” said Charny, “because I see that for some time the friendship she bore you has been somewhat diminished.”
“Possibly, sir; and on that account, as I had the honour to say, I wished to leave the court.”
“But, madame, you will be very lonely and isolated.”
“Have I not always been, as a child, a girl, and as—”
She paused, seeing that she was going too far.
“You have seen my idea, sir; I was about to say as a wife.”
“Am I so happy as to have you reproach me on that account?”
“Reproach, sir!” said Andree, quickly. “What right, great God, have I to reproach you? Think you, I forget the circumstances of our marriage? No; those who at the foot of the altar do not swear eternal love, but, as we did, eternal indifference and separation, have no right to reproach each other for violation of the marriage vow.”
Andree's words wrung a sigh from the heart of Charny.
“I see, madame,” said he, “that your determination is fixed, but, at least, let me ask you, how you are to live here?”
“My father's household,” said she, ''was so poor, that, compared with it, this pavilion, naked as it seems, is more luxurious than anything I have been used to.”
“But the charming retreat of Trianon, Versailles.”
“Ah! I knew I would have to relinquish them.”
“You will at least have here all you need.”
“I shall find all I am used to.”
“Let me see,” said Charny, who wished to form an idea of the room she was to occupy, and who was examining everything.
“What do you wish to see, sir?” asked Andree, rising slowly, and looking anxiously in the direction of the chamber.
“But if you are not very humble in your wishes, madame, this pavilion is not a home. I have passed through one antechamber, and I am now in the saloon. This door” (he opened one on the side) “leads into a chamber, and that, I see, into a dining-room.”
Andree rushed between the count and the door, and fancied that she saw Sebastian.
“Monsieur,” said she, “I beg you not to go further.”
“Ah! I understand: this is the door of your bed-chamber.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered Andree, half stifled.
Charny looked at the countess, and saw that she was trembling and pale. Terror was never more evident than in the expression of her face.
“Ah! madame, I was aware that you did not love me, but was not aware that you hated me .'”
Unable to repress his feelings in Andree's presence any longer, he staggered for a moment like a drunken man, and rushed out of the room with a cry of agony which reached the depth of Andree's heart.
The young woman looked after him until he had disappeared. With outstretched ears she listened as long as she could to hear his carriage wheels, which gradually became more indistinct, and then, arousing all her power, though she felt that her heart would almost break, and that she had not too much maternal love to combat this other love, she rushed into the room crying, “Sebastian! Sebastian!”
No voice replied to her, and her cry of agony had no echo.
By the light of the lamp she looked around, and saw that the room was empty.
She could, however, scarcely believe her eyes.
She called Sebastian, again and again.
Then only did she see that the window was open, and that the current of air agitated the flame of the lamp.
The same window had been found open when, fifteen years before, her son had first disappeared.
“True,” said she, “did he not say I was not his mother?”
Then she saw that at the moment she had regained them, she had lost both a husband and a child, and she threw herself on her bed with arms outstretched, and her fingers convulsively grasped. Her strength and resignation were exhausted.
She could but cry, weep, and appreciate her loss.
Nearly an hour passed in this state of profound annihilation, in a total oblivion of the whole world, and that wish for annihilation which the unhappy entertain—the hope that, returning to nothing, the world will with it hear them away.
All at once it seemed to Andree that something more terrible than grief coursed through her veins. A sensation she had experienced but twice or thrice before, and which had always preceded great crises of her life, took possession of her. By a slow motion, independent of will, she slowly lifted herself up. Her voice died in her throat; all her body, as if involuntarily attracted, became convulsed, and she fancied she could see that she was not alone. Her sight became fixed and clear; a man who seemed to have passed the window still stood before her; she wished to call, to reach out her hand to the bell-rope; she felt the same inexpressible stupor she before had experienced in the presence of Balsamo. The man who thus fascinated her was Gilbert.
Here came the father she hated, to replace the son she loved.
