GILBERT, AS we have said, gazed and listened. He saw Andree stretched on a reclining chair, her face turned toward the glass door, that is to say, directly toward him. This door was slightly ajar.
A small lamp with a deep shade was placed upon an adjoining table—which was covered with books, indicating the only species of recreation permitted to the invalid—and lighted only the lower part of Mademoiselle de Taverney's face. Sometimes, however, when she leaned back, so as to rest against the pillow of the reclining chair, the light overspread her marble forehead, which was veiled in a lace cap. Philip was sitting at the foot of her chair with his back toward Gilbert; his arm was still in a sling, and all exercise of it was forbidden.
It was the first time that Andree had been up, and the first time also that Philip had left his room. The young people, therefore, had not seen each other since that terrible night, but each knew that the other was recovering, and hastening toward convalescence. They had only been together for a few moments, and were conversing without restraint, for they knew that even if any one should interrupt them, they would be warned by the noise of the bell attached to the door which Nicole had left open. But of course they were not aware of the circumstance of the door having been left open, and they calculated upon the bell.
Gilbert saw and heard all, therefore; for through this open door, he could seize every word of their conversation.
“So now,” Philip was saying, just as Gilbert took his place behind a curtain hung loosely before the door of a dressing-room, “so now you breathe more easily, my poor sister?”
“Yes, more easily; but still with a slight pain.”
“Returns but slowly; nevertheless, I have been able to walk to the window two or three times to-day. How sweet the fresh air is, how lovely the flowers! It seems to me that, surrounded with air and flowers, it is impossible to die.”
“But still you are very weak; are you not. Andree?”
“Oh, yes! for the shock was a terrible one! Therefore,” continued the young girl, smiling and shaking her head, “I repeat that I walk with difficulty, and am obliged to lean on the tables and the projecting points of the wainscoting. Without this support my limbs bend under me, and I feel as if I should every moment fall.”
“ Courage, Andree! The fresh air and the beautiful flowers you spoke of just now will cure you, and in a week you will be able to pay a visit to the dauphiness, who, I am informed, sends to inquire so kindly for you.”
“Yes, I hope so, Philip; for the dauphiness in truth seems most kind to me.”
And Andree, leaning back, put her hand upon her chest and closed her lovely eyes.
Gilbert made a step forward with outstretched arms.
“You are in pain, my sister?” asked Philip, taking her hand.
“Yes, at times I have slight spasms, and sometimes the blood mounts to my head, and my temples throb; sometimes again I feel quite giddy, and my heart sinks within me.”
“Oh,” said Philip dreamily, “'that is not surprising; you have met with a dreadful trial, and your escape was almost miraculous.”
“Miraculous is in truth the proper term, brother.”
“But, speaking of your miraculous escape, Andree.” said Philip, approaching closer to his sister, to give more emphasis to the question, “do you know I have never yet had an opportunity of speaking to you of this catastrophe?”
Andree blushed and seemed uneasy, but Philip did not remark this change of color, or at least did not appear to remark it.
“I thought, however,” said the young girl, “that the person who restored me to you gave all the explanations you could wish; my father, at least, told me he was quite satisfied.”
“Of course, my dear Andree; and this man, so far as I could judge, behaved with extreme delicacy in the whole affair; but still, some parts of his tale seemed to me, not suspicious, indeed, but obscure—that is the proper term.”
“How so, and what do you mean, brother?” asked Andree, with the frankness of innocence.
“For instance,” said Philip, “there is one point which did not at first strike me, but which has since seemed to me to bear a very strange aspect.”
“Why, the very manner in which you were saved. Can you describe it to me?”
The young girl seemed to make an effort over herself.
“Oh! Philip,” said she, “I have almost forgotten—I was so much terrified.”
“No matter, my sweetest Andree; tell me all you remember.”'
“Well, you know, brother, we were separated about twenty paces from the Garde-Meuble. I saw you dragged away toward the garden of the Tuileries, while I was drawn toward the Rue Royale. For an instant I could distinguish you making fruitless attempts to rejoin me. I stretched out my arms toward you, crying, Philip! Philip! when all at once I was, as it were, seized by a whirlwind, which raised me aloft and bore me in the direction of the railings. I felt the living tide carrying me toward the wall, where I must be dashed to atoms; I heard the cries of those who were crushed against the railings; I felt that my turn would come to be crushed and mangled; I could almost calculate the number of seconds I had yet to live, when, half dead and almost frantic, raising my hands and eyes to Heaven in a last prayer, I met the burning glance of a man who seemed to govern the crowd and whom the crowd seemed to obey.”
“And this man was the Count Joseph Balsamo?”
“Yes; the same whom I had already seen at Taverney—the same who, even there, inspired me with such a strange terror; he, in short, who seems to be endowed with some supernatural power, who has fascinated my sight with his eyes, my ears with his voice; who has made my whole being tremble by the mere touch of his finger on my shoulder.”
“Proceed, proceed, Andree,” said Philip, his features and voice becoming gloomier as she spoke.
“Well, this man seemed to tower aloft above the catastrophe, as if human suffering could not reach him. I read in his eyes that he wished to save me—that he had the power to do so. Then something extraordinary took place in me and around me. Bruised, powerless, half dead as I was, I felt myself raised toward this man as if some unknown, mysterious, invincible power drew me to him. I felt as if some strong arm, by a mighty effort, was lifting me out of the gulf of mangled flesh in which so many unhappy victims were suffocating, and was restoring me to air, to life. Oh, Philip!” continued Andree, with a sort of feverish vehemence, “I feel certain it was that man's look which attracted me to him. I reached his hand; I was saved!
“'Alas!” murmured Gilbert, “she had eyes only for him; and I—I—who was dying at her feet—she saw me not!”
He wiped his brow, bathed in perspiration.
“That is how the affair happened, then?” asked Philip.
“Yes; up to the moment when I felt myself out of danger. Then, whether all my force bad been exhausted in the last effort I had made, or whether the terror I had experienced had outstripped the measure of my strength, I do not know, but I fainted?”
“And at what time do you think you fainted?”
“About ten minutes after we were separated, brother.”
“Yes,” pursued Philip, “that was about midnight. How then did it happen that you did not return till three o'clock? Forgive me this catechizing, which may seem ridiculous to you, dear Andree, but I have a good reason for it.”
“Thanks. Philip,” said Andree, pressing her brother's hand. “Three days ago I could not have replied to you as I have now done; but to-day—it may seem strange to you what I am about to say—but to day my mental vision is stronger; it seems to me as if some will stronger than my own ordered me to remember, and I do remember.”
“Then tell me, dear Andree, for I am all impatience to know, did this man carry you away in his arms?”
“'In his arms?” said Andree, blushing; “I do not well recollect. All I know is, that he extricated me out of the crowd. But the touch of his hand caused me the same feeling as at Taverney, and scarcely had he touched me when I fainted again, or rather, I sunk to sleep; for fainting is generally preceded by a painful feeling, and on this occasion I only felt the pleasing sensation attendant on sleep.”
“In truth, Andree, what you tell me seems so strange, that if any other related these things, I should not believe them. But proceed,” continued he, in a voice which betrayed more emotion than he was willing to let appear.
As for Gilbert, he devoured Andree's every word, for he knew that, so far at least, each word was true.
“When I regained my consciousness,” continued the young girl, “I was in a splendidly furnished salon. A femme-de-chambre and a lady were standing beside air, but they did not seem at all uneasy, for when I awoke they were smiling benevolently.”
“Do you know what time this was. Andree?”
“The half-hour after midnight was just striking.”
“Oh!” said the young man, breathing freely, “that is well. Proceed, Andree, with your narrative.”
“I thanked the ladies for the attentions they lavished on me; but knowing how uneasy you would be, I begged them to send me home immediately. Then they told me that the count had returned to the scene of the accident to assist the wounded, but that he would return with a carriage and convey me back himself to our hotel. In fact, about two o'clock I heard a carriage roll along the street; then the same sensation which I had formerly felt on the approach of that man overpowered me; I fell back trembling and almost senseless upon a sofa. The door opened. In the midst of my confusion I could still recognize the man who had saved me; then for a second time I lost all consciousness. They must then have carried me down, placed me in the carriage, and brought me here. That is all I can remember, brother.”
Philip calculated the time, and saw that his sister must, have been brought direct from the Rue des Ecuries-du-Louvre to the Rue Coq-Heron, as she had been from the Place Louis XV. to the Rue des Ecuries-du-Louvre; and, joyfully pressing her hands, he said in a frank, cheerful voice:
“Thanks, my dear sister, thanks; all the calculations correspond exactly. I will call upon the Marchioness de Sevigny and thank her in person. In the meantime, one word more upon a subject of secondary importance.”
“Do you remember seeing among the crowd any face with which you were acquainted?”
“The little Gilbert's, for example?”
“In fact,” said Andree, endeavoring to recall her thoughts, “I do remember to have seen him. At the moment when we were separated, he was about ten paces from me.”
“She saw me!” murmured Gilbert.
“Because, while searching for you, Andree. I discovered the poor lad.”
“Among the dead?” asked Andree, with that peculiar shade of interest which the great testify for their dependents.
“No, he was only wounded; he was saved, and I hope he will recover.”
“Oh! I am glad to hear it,” said Andree; “and what injury had he received?”
“His chest was greatly bruised.”
“Yes, yes, against thine, Andree!” murmured Gilbert.
“But,” continued Philip, “the strangest circumstance of all, and the one which induced me to speak of the lad, was, that I found in his hand, clenched and stiffened by pain, a fragment of your dress.”
“Did you not see him at the last moment?”
“At the last moment, Philip, I saw so many fearful forms of terror, pain, selfishness, love, pity, avarice, and indifference, that I felt as if I had passed a year in the realms of torment, and as if these figures were those of the damned passing in review before me. I may, therefore, have seen the young man, but I do not remember him.”
“And yet the piece of stuff torn from your dress?—and it was your dross, Andree, for Nicole has examined it.”
“Did you tell the girl for what purpose you questioned her?” asked Andree; for she remembered the singular explanation she had had at Taverney with her waiting-maid on the subject of this same Gilbert.
“Oh no. However, the fragment was in his hand. How can you explain that?”
“Oh! very easily!” said Andree, with a calmness which presented a strange contrast to the fearful beating of Gilbert's heart; “if he was near me when I felt myself raised aloft, as it were, by this man's look, he has probably clung to me to profit by the help I was receiving, in the same manner as a drowning man clings to the belt of the swimmer.”
“Oh!” said Gilbert, with a feeling of angry contempt at this explanation of the young girl; “oh, what an ignoble interpretation of my devotion! How these nobles judge us sons of the people! Monsieur Rousseau is right; we are worth more than they; our hearts are purer, and our arms stronger.”
As he once more settled himself to listen to the conversation of the brother and sister, which he had for a moment lost during this aside, be heard a noise behind him.
“Oh, heavens!” murmured he, “some one in the anteroom!”
And hearing the step approach the corridor. Gilbert drew back into the dressing-room, letting the curtain fall before him.
“Well! Is that madcap Nicole not here?” said the Baron de Taverney's voice, as he entered his daughter's apartment, touching Gilbert with the flaps of his coat as he passed.
“I dare say she is in the garden,” said Andree, with a tranquillity which showed that she had no suspicion of the presence of a third person; “'good-evening, my dear father.”
Philip rose respectfully; the baron motioned him to remain where he was, and taking an armchair, sat down near his children.
“Ah! my children,” said the baron, “it is a long journey from the Rue Coq-Heron to Versailles, when, instead of going in a good court carriage, you have only a fiacre drawn by one horse. However, I saw the dauphiness, nevertheless.”
“Ah!” said Andree, “then you have just arrived from Versailles, my dear father?”
“Yes; the princess did me the honor to send for me, having heard of the accident which had happened to my daughter.”
“Andree is much better, father,” said Philip.
“I am perfectly aware of it, and I told her royal highness so, who was kind enough to promise that, as soon as your sister is completely restored, she will summon her to Petit-Trianon, which she has fixed upon for her residence, and which she is now having decorated according to her taste.”
“I!—I at court!” said Andree, timidly.
“It is not the court, my child. The dauphiness has quiet and unobtrusive habits, and the dauphin hates show and noise. They will lire in complete retirement at Trianon. However, from what I know of her highness the dauphiness's disposition, her little family parties will turn out in the end much better than Beds of Justice and meetings of States-General. The princess has a decided character, and the dauphin. I am told, is learned.”
“Oh, it will always be the court! Do not deceive yourself, sister,” said Philip, mournfully.
“The court!” said Gilbert to himself, with an emotion of concentrated rage and despair. “The court! that is a summit which I cannot reach, or a gulf into which I cannot dash myself. In that case, farewell, Andree! Lost! —lost to me forever!”
“But, my father,” replied Andree, “we have neither the fortune which would warrant our choosing such a residence, nor the education necessary for those who move in its lofty circle. What shall I, a poor girl, do among those brilliant ladies, whose dazzling splendor I on one occasion witnessed, whose minds I thought so empty, but at the same time so sparkling? Alas! my brother, we are too obscure to mingle among so many dazzling lights.”
“Still the same absurd ideas!” said he. “In truth, I cannot understand the pains which my family take to depreciate everything which they inherit from me, or which relates to me. Obscure! Really, mademoiselle, you are mad. Obscure!—a Taverney-Maison-Rouge obscure! And who will shine, pray, if you do not! Fortune? —pardieu! we know what the fortunes of the court are? The sun of royalty fills them, the same sun makes them blow—it is the great vivifier of court nature. I have ruined myself at court and no w I shall grow rich again at court, that's all. Has the king no more money to bestow upon his faithful servants? And do you really think I would blush at a regiment being offered to my eldest son, at a dowry being granted to you, Andree, at a nice little appanage conferred on myself, or at finding a handsome pension under my napkin some day at dinner? No, no, fools alone have prejudices; I have none. Besides, it is only my own property which is given back to me. Do not, therefore, entertain these foolish scruples. There remains only one of your objections—your education, of which you spoke just now. But, mademoiselle, remember, that no young lady of the court has been educated as you have been. Nay, more; you have, besides the education usually given to the daughters of the noblesse, the solid acquirements more generally confined to the families of lawyers or financiers. You are a musician, and you draw landscape's, with sheep and cows, which Berghem need not disclaim. Now, the dauphiness absolutely dotes on cows, on sheep, and on Berghem. You are beautiful; the king cannot fail to notice it. You can converse; that will charm the Count d'Artois and the Count de Provence; you will not only be well received, therefore, but adored. Yes, yes,” continued the baron, rubbing his hands, and chuckling in so strange a manner that Philip gazed at his father to see if the laugh was really produced by a human mouth, “adored! I have said the word.”
Andree cast down her eyes, and Philip, taking her hand, said:
“Our father is right, Andree, you are everything he described. None can be more worthy to enter Versailles than you.”
“But I shall be separated from you.” replied Andree.
“By no means, by no means,” interrupted the baron; “Versailles is large, my dear.”
“Yes, but Trianon is little,” replied Andree, haughty and rather unmanageable when she was opposed.
“Trianon will always be large enough to provide a chamber for M. de Taverney. A man such as I am always finds room,” added he, with a modesty which meant—always knows how to make room for himself.
Andree, not much comforted by this promised proximity of her father, turned to Philip.
“My sister,” said the latter, “you will certainly not belong to what is called the court. Instead of placing you in a convent and paying your dowry, the dauphiness, who wishes to distinguish you, will keep you near herself in some employment. Etiquette is not so rigid now as m the time of Louis XIV. Offices are more easily fused together and separated. You can occupy the post of reader or companion to the dauphiness; she will draw with you, she will always keep you near her; probably you will never appear in public, but you will enjoy her immediate protection, and consequently, will inspire envy. That is what you fear, is it not?”
“However,” said the baron, “we shall not grieve for such a trifle as one or two envious persons. Get better quickly, therefore, Andree, and I shall have the pleasure of taking you to Trianon myself; it is the dauphiness's commands.”
“Very well, father, I shall go.”
“Apropos, Philip, have you any money?” asked the baron.
“If you want some, sir,” replied the young man, “I have not enough to offer you; if you wish to give me some, I shall answer you, on the contrary, that I have enough for myself.”
“True, you are a philosopher,” said the baron, laughing sarcastically. “Are you a philosopher, also, Andree, who have nothing to ask from me, or is there anything you wish for?”
“I am afraid of embarrassing you, father.”
“Oh I we are not at Taverney now. The king has sent me five hundred louis-d'ors; on account, his majesty said. Think of your wardrobe, Andree.”
“Thank you, my dear father,” said the young girl, joyously.
“There, there,” said the baron, “see the extremes —only a minute ago she wanted nothing, now she would ruin the emperor of China. But no matter, ask —fine dresses will become you well, Andree.”
Then, giving her a very affectionate kiss, the baron opened the door of an apartment which separated his own from his daughter's chamber, and left the room, saying:
“ That cursed Nicole is not here to show me light.”
“Shall I ring for her, father?”
“No, I have La Brie, who is sleeping in some armchair or other; good-night, my children.”
“Good-night, brother,” said Andree. “I am dreadfully tired. It is the first time I have spoken so much since my accident. Good-night, dear Philip.”
And she gave her hand to the young I man, who kissed it with brotherly affection, but at the same time with a sort of respect with which his sister always inspired him, and retired, touching, as he passed, the door behind which Gilbert was concealed.
“Shall I call Nicole?” asked he, as he left the room.
“No, no,” said Andree, “I can undress alone; adieu, Philip.”
