A STRANGE preoccupation for a king whose subjects were undermining his throne. The inquisitiveness of the erudite man applied to a physical phenomenon, while the most important political phenomenon was taking place that France had ever known,—that is to say, the transformation of a monarchy into a democracy. This sight, we say, of a king forgetting himself during the most terrible period of a tempest, would certainly have caused the great minds of the time to smile, bent, as they had been during three months, on the solution of their problem.
While riot was raging in all its fury without, Louis, forgetting the terrible events of the day,—the taking of the Bastille, the assassination of Flesselles, De Launay, and De Losme, the disposition of the National Assembly to revolt against the king,—Louis was concentrating his mind on this examination of a theory; and the revelations of this strange scene absorbed him no less than the most vital interests of his government.
And thus, as soon as he had given the order which we have mentioned to the captain of his guards, he returned to Gilbert, who was removing from the countess the excess of fluid with which he had charged her, in order that her slumber might be more tranquil than under the effects of this convulsive somnambulism.
For an instant the respiration of the countess became calm and easy as that of a sleeping child. Then Gilbert, with a single motion of his hand, reopened her eyes, and put her into a state of ecstasy.
It was then that one could see the extraordinary beauty of Andrée, in all its splendor. Being completely freed from all earthly agitations, the blood, which had for an instant rushed to her face, and which momentarily had colored her cheeks, redescended to her heart, whose pulsations had recovered their natural state. Her face had again become pale, but of that beautiful pallor of the women of the East; her eyes, opened rather more than usual, were raised towards heaven, and left the pupils floating, as it were, in the pearl-like whiteness of their eyeballs; the nose, slightly expanded, appeared to inhale a purer atmosphere; and her lips, which had preserved all their vermilion, although her cheeks had lost a little of theirs, were slightly separated, and discovered a row of pearls, of which the sweet moistness increased the brilliancy.
The head was gently thrown backwards with an inexpressible grace, almost angelic. It might have been said that this fixed look, increasing its scope of vision by its intensity, penetrated to the foot of the throne of God.
The king gazed at her as if dazzled. Gilbert turned away his head and sighed. He could not resist the desire to give Andrée this degree of superhuman beauty; and now, like Pygmalion—more unhappy even than Pygmalion, for he knew the insensibility of the beautiful statue he trembled at the sight of his own production.
He made a sign without even turning his head towards Andrée, and her eyes closed instantly.
The king desired Gilbert to explain to him that marvellous state, in which the soul separates itself from the body, and soars, free, happy, and divine, above all terrestrial miseries.
Gilbert, like all men of truly superior genius, could pronounce the words so much dreaded by mediocrity, “I do not know.” He confessed his ignorance to the king. He had produced a phenomenon which he could not explain. The fact itself existed, but the explanation of the fact could not be given.
“Doctor,” said the king, on hearing this avowal of Gilbert, “this is another of those secrets which Nature reserves for the learned men of another generation, and which will be studied thoroughly, like so many other mysteries which were thought insoluble. We call them mysteries; our fathers would have called them sorcery or witchcraft.”
“Yes, Sire,” answered Gilbert, smiling, “and I should have had the honor to be burned on the Place de Grève, for the greater glory of a religion which was not understood, by wise men without learning, and priests devoid of faith.”
“And under whom did you study this science?” rejoined the king; “was it with Mesmer?”
“Oh, Sire!” said Gilbert, smiling, “I had seen the most astonishing phenomena of the science ten years before the name of Mesmer was pronounced in France.”
“Tell me now; this Mesmer, who has revolutionized all France, was he, in your opinion, a charlatan? It seems to me that you operate much more simply than he. I have heard his experiments spoken of, and also those of Deslon and Puységur. You know all that has been said on the subject, whether idle stories or positive truths.”
“I have carefully observed all these discussions, Sire.”
“Well, then, what do you think of the famous vat or tub?”
“I hope your Majesty will excuse me if I answer doubtingly to all you ask me with regard to the magnetic art. Magnetism has not yet become an art.”
“But it assuredly is a power, a terrific power, since it annihilates the will, since it isolates the soul from the body, and places the body of the somnambulist in the power of the magnetizer, while the soul does not retain the power, nor even the desire, to defend itself. As for me, Sire, I have seen strange phenomena produced. I have produced many myself. Well, I nevertheless still doubt.”
“How! you still doubt? You perform miracles, and yet you are in doubt?”
“No, I do not doubt—I do not doubt. At this moment even, I have a proof before my eyes of an extraordinary and incomprehensible power. But when that proof has disappeared, when I am at home alone in my library, face to face with all that human science has written during three thousand years; when science says no; when the mind says no; when reason says no, I doubt.”
“And did your master also doubt, Doctor?”
“Perhaps he did, but he was less sincere than I. He did not express his doubt.”
“Was it Deslon? Was it Puységur?”
“No, Sire, no. My master was a man far superior to all the men you have named. I have seen him perform the most marvellous things, especially with regard to wounds. No science was unknown to him. He had impregnated his mind with Egyptian theories. He had penetrated the arcana of ancient Assyrian civilization. He was a profound scholar, a formidable philosopher, having a great knowledge of human life, combined with a persevering will.”
“Have I ever known him?” asked the king.
“I ask you whether I ever knew him?”
“Sire,” said Gilbert, “to pronounce that name before the king would perhaps render me liable to his displeasure. Now, especially at this moment, when the majority of Frenchmen are contemning all royal authority, I would not throw a shade on the respect we all owe your Majesty.”
“Name that man boldly, Doctor Gilbert; and be persuaded that I too have my philosophy,—a philosophy of sufficiently good material to enable me to smile at all the insults of the present and all the threats of the future.”
Gilbert still continued to hesitate.
“Sir,” said he to Gilbert, laughing, “call him Satan, if you will; I shall still find a shield to protect me from him,—the one which your dogmatizers do not possess,—one that they never will possess, one which I alone perhaps in this century possess, and bear without feeling shame,—religion.”
“Your Majesty believes as Saint Louis did. It is true,” said Gilbert.
“And in that lies all my strength, I confess, Doctor. I like science; I adore the results of materialism; I am a mathematician, as you well know; you know that the sum total of an addition or an algebraical formula fills my heart with joy; but when I meet people who carry algebra to atheism, I have in reserve my profound, inexhaustible, and eternal faith—a faith which places me a degree above and a degree below them,—above them in good, and beneath them in evil. You see, then, Doctor, that I am a man to whom everything may be said, a king who can hear anything.”
“Sire,” said Gilbert, with a sort of admiration, “I thank your Majesty for what you have just said to me; for you have almost honored me with the confidence of a friend.”
“Oh, I wish,” the timid Louis hastened to exclaim, “I wish all Europe could hear me speak thus. If Frenchmen could read in my heart all the energy of feeling, the tenderness which it contains, I think they would oppose me less.”
The last portion of the king's sentence, which showed that the king was irritated by the attack the royal prerogative had been subjected to, lowered Louis XVI. in the estimation of Gilbert.
He hastened to say, without attempting to spare the king's feelings,—
“Sire, since you insist upon it, my master was the Count de Cagliostro.”
“Oh!” cried Louis, coloring, “that empiric!”
“That empiric!—yes, Sire! Your Majesty is doubtless aware that the word you have just pronounced is one of the noblest used in science. Empiric means the man who experiments: the practitioner, the profound thinker,-the man, in short, who is incessantly investigating,—does all that God permits men to do that is glorious and beautiful. Let but a man experiment during his whole life, and his life will be well occupied.”
“Ah, sir, this Cagliostro whom you defend was a great enemy of kings.”
Gilbert recollected the affair of the necklace.
“Is it not rather the enemy of queens your Majesty intended to say?”
Louis shuddered at this sharp home-thrust.
“Yes,” said he, “he conducted himself, in all the affair of Prince Louis de Rohan, in a manner which was more than equivocal.”
“Sire, in that, as in other circumstances, Cagliostro carried out the human mission: he made his own researches. In science, in morals, in politics, there is neither good nor evil; there are only stated phenomena or accomplished facts. Nevertheless, I will not defend him, Sire. I repeat, the man may often have merited blame; perhaps some day this very blame may be considered as praise: posterity reconsiders the judgments of men. But I did not study under the man, Sire, but under the philosopher, under the great physician.”
“Well, well,” said the king, who still felt the double wound his pride and heart had received, “well; but we are forgetting the Countess de Charny, and perhaps she is suffering.”
“I will wake her up, Sire, if your Majesty desires it; but I had wished that the casket might arrive here during her sleep.”
“To spare her a too harsh lesson.”
“Here is somebody coming at this moment,” said the king. “Wait.”
In fact, the king's order had been punctually obeyed. The casket found at the hotel of the Countess de Charny, in the possession of the agent Wolfsfoot, was brought into the royal cabinet, under the very eyes of the Countess, who did not see it.
The king made a sign of satisfaction to the officer who brought the casket. The officer then left the room.
“Well, then, Sire, that is, in fact, the very casket which had been taken away from me.”
“Sire, I am willing to do so, if your Majesty desires it; but I have only to forewarn your Majesty of one thing.”
“Sire, as I told your Majesty, this box contains only papers which are easily read, and might be taken, and on which depends the honor of a woman.”
“And that woman is the countess?”
“Yes, Sire. That honor will not be endangered while this matter is confined to the knowledge of your Majesty. Open it, Sire,” said Gilbert, approaching the casket, and presenting the key of it to the king.
“Sir,” replied Louis XVI. coldly, “take away this box; it belongs to you.”
“Thank you, Sire, but what are we to do with the countess?”
“Oh, do not, above all, wake her up here. I wish to avoid all recriminations and painful scenes.”
“Sire,” said Gilbert, “the countess will only awake in the place where you wish her to be carried.”
“Well, let her be taken to the queen's apartment, then.”
Louis rang the bell. An officer entered the room.
“Captain,” said he, “the Countess de Charny has just fainted here, on hearing the news from Paris. Have her taken to the queen's room.”
“How long will it take to carry her there?” asked Gilbert of the king.
“About ten minutes,” replied the latter.
Gilbert laid his hand on the countess.
“You will awake in three quarters of an hour,” said he.
Two soldiers entered,—the order having been given by the officer,—who carried her away in an arm-chair.
“Now, Monsieur Gilbert, what more do you desire?” asked the king.
“Sire, I desire a favor which would draw me nearer to your Majesty, and procure me at the same time an opportunity to be useful to you.”
The king endeavored to divine what he could mean.
“I should like to be one of the physicians in ordinary to the king,” replied Gilbert; “I should be in the way of no one; it is a post of honor, but rather a confidential than a brilliant one.”
“Granted,” said the king. “Adieu, Monsieur Gilbert. Ah! by the bye, a thousand compliments to Necker. Adieu.”
Then, as he was leaving the room:—
“My supper!” cried Louis, whom no event, however important, could induce to forget his supper.
