Andree De Taverney.
THE SEARCHING intellect of Balsamo found ample food for study in each detail of the strange and isolated life led by this family in a corner of Lorraine.
The saltcellar alone revealed to him one phase of the baron’s character, or rather his character in all its bearings. He called up all his penetration, therefore, as he scrutinized the features of Andree while she handed him that saltcellar.
At length, whether moved by curiosity or some deeper feeling, Balsamo gazed on Andree so fixedly, that two or three times, in less than ten minutes, the eyes of the young girl met his. At first she bore his look without confusion, but its intensity became by degrees so great that a feverish impatience, which made the blood mount to her cheeks, took possession of her; then, feeling that this look had something supernatural in its power, she tried to brave it, and, in her turn, she gazed at the baron with her large, limpid, dilated eyes. But this time again she was obliged to yield, and, filled with the magnetic fluid which flowed in streams from his flaming orbs, her eyelids weighed down, sunk timidly, no longer to be raised but with hesitation.
While this silent struggle went on between the young girl and the mysterious traveler, the baron grumbled, laughed, found fault, and swore like a true country gentleman, and pinched La Brie whenever he was within his reach, feeling that he must vent his spleen on some one. He was going to do the same to Nicole, when his eyes, for the first time no doubt, rested on the hands of the young waiting-maid. The baron was an adorer of fine hands — all his youthful follies might be attributed to the power of a fine hand over him.
“Only see!” cried he, “what pretty fingers this little rogue has! how the nail tapers — it would bend over the tip! — a great beauty if washing bottles and cutting wood did not wear down the horn; for it is horn you have at the ends of your fingers, Mademoiselle Nicole.”
Not accustomed to compliments from her master, Nicole looked at him with a half smile, in which there was more astonishment than gratification.
“Yes, yes,” said the baron, who saw what passed in the mind of the young flirt, “now turn away — play the coquette, I beg of you; but I must inform you, my dear guest, that Mademoiselle Nicole Legay, this young lady here present, is not a prude like her mistress, and is not at all afraid of a compliment.”
Balsamo turned quickly toward the baron’s daughter, and saw an expression of supreme disdain on her handsome features; then, thinking it right to adapt his expression to hers, he looked haughtily away, at which Andree seemed pleased, and regarded him with less sternness, or rather with less uneasiness, than before.
“Would you think, sir,” continued the baron, chucking Nicole under the chin, “would you think that this damsel had been in a convent with my daughter, and is really what one might call educated? Oh! Mademoiselle Nicole would not quit her mistress for a moment. There is a devotedness in her which would greatly delight the philosophers who maintain that these creatures have souls.”
“Sir,” said Andree, displeased, “it is not devotedness which prevents Nicole from leaving me; it is because I order her to remain.”
Balsamo rolled his eyes to Nicole, to see the effect of these contemptuous words, and he observed, from her compressed lips, that she was not insensible to the humiliations to which her position of domestic exposed her. But the emotion was transitory; for, in turning away to hide it, her eyes rested with interest on a window of the room which looked into the courtyard. Everything roused the curiosity of Balsamo, and, as he followed her eyes, he thought he saw what interested her — the face of a man at the window. “In truth,” thought he, “every one has a mystery in this house, and I hope soon to know Mademoiselle Andree’s. I have found out the baron’s, and I guess what Nicole’s is.” While thus communing with himself, the baron observed his absence of mind.
“You are in a reverie, my dear guest,” said he. “Well, it is infectious here — it attacks every one. Let me reckon; first, Mademoiselle de Taverney falls into reveries; then Mademoiselle Nicole does the same; then the good-for-nothing fellow who shot the partridges is in a perpetual reverie, and very likely the partridges were in a reverie when he shot them.”
“Gilbert?” asked Balsamo.
“Yes. Oh, a philosopher like Monsieur la Brie here! But excuse me; perhaps you are a friend of theirs? If so, I warn you you will be none of mine.”
“No, sir; I am neither for them nor against them,” replied Balsamo. “I know nothing of them.”
“Ventrebleu! so much the better. They are wretches as mischievous as they are ugly; the monarchy will be ruined by their opinions. No one laughs now; they read, they read! And what, I pray you? Sentiments like this; Under a monarchical government it is difficult for a people to be virtuous; or this; Monarchy is an institution invented for the corruption of the morals of men, and the purpose of enslaving them! or else this; If the power of kings comes from God, it comes as diseases and other scourges of the human race come from him. You call that improving, I hope! A virtuous people! Now, I ask you, of what use would they be? Everything has gone wrong since the king spoke to Voltaire and read Diderot!”
At this moment Balsamo thought he saw the pale face, which he had seen before, again appear at the window; but it vanished when he looked in that direction.
“Is mademoiselle a philosopher?” asked Balsamo, turning to Andree with a smile.
“I don’t even know what philosophy is,” replied Andree. “I like what is serious.”
“Ha! mademoiselle!” cried the baron, “then, in my opinion, nothing is more serious than good living — like that. I pray you.”
“But mademoiselle does not hate life, I presume?” said Balsamo.
“That depends on circumstances,” replied Andree.
“What a stupid phrase,” exclaimed the baron; “would you believe it, sir, my son once made me, word for word, a similar reply?”
“You have a son, then, sir?”
“Oh, mon Dieu! sir, yes! I have that misfortune. The Chevalier de Taverney, lieutenant in the body-guard of the Dauphin — a most excellent young man! And the baron uttered these four words as if he would have crushed each letter in them.
“I congratulate you, sir, “said Balsamo, with a bow.
“Oh yes! another philosopher, sir! Upon the honor of a gentleman, it is sickening! Did he not speak to me the other day about giving the negroes their freedom! ‘And what about sugar?’ asked I,’ for I like my coffee very sweet, and so does Louis XV.’ ‘Sir,’ replied he,’ is it not better to go without sugar than to make a whole race suffer?’ ‘A race of monkeys,’ said I, and I think it was saying a great deal in their praise. Well! What do you think he said next? — ma foi! there must be something in the air to turn people’s “heads! He replied to me, ‘that all men were brothers!’ I the brother of a Hottentot!”
“Oh, that was going rather far!”
“Hey! what do you think of that? I am in great luck with my two children, am I not? No one will say that I shall be truly represented in my descendants. The sister is an angel — the brother an apostle! Drink, sir, drink! The wine is detestable!”
“I think it exquisite,” said Balsamo, still looking at Andree.
“Then you are a philosopher! Take care, or I shall order my daughter to preach you a sermon. But, no, philosopher-, have no religion. Still, religion was a very convenient thing — one believed in God and the king, and all was settled. Now people believe in neither one nor the other — they must know so much — read so much — I prefer never doubting. In my time, our only study was to amuse ourselves — to play at faro and dice, and to fence — we ruined duchesses, and were ruined by opera-dancers — that was my history to a tittle! The whole of Taverney went to the opera. It is the only tiling I regret, for a ruined man is not worth the name of man. You think me old, don’t you? Well, it is because I am ruined, and live in this den; because my wig is shabby, and my coat a relic of antiquity. But look at my friend, the marshal, with his coats of the newest cut, and his well-curled wig, and his ten thousand a-year. He looks young, fresh, and gay, and yet he is ten years older than I, sir! — ten years, I assure you!”
“You speak of Monsieur de Richelieu?”
“Yes, the same.”
“The duke?”
“Why, faith, not the cardinal, I think — I do not go quite so far back. Besides, the cardinal never did what his nephew did; he did not last so long.”
“I am surprised that, with such powerful friends at court, you should have left it.”
“Oh, a temporary retreat! I shall return to it some day or other,” and the old baron east a singular look on his daughter. Balsamo did not allow it to pass unnoticed.
“But,” said he, “the marshal might at least advance your son?”
“My son! He hates him.”
“Hates the son of his friend?”
“He is quite right.”
“And do you say so, sir?”
“Pardieu! I tell you he is a philosopher — he abhors him!”
“And Philip returns him the compliment,” said Andree, with perfect calmness. “Remove these things, Legay!”
The young girl, roused from her fixed contemplation of the window, hastened to obey.
“Ah,” said the baron, sighing, “one used to sit after supper till two in the morning — we had what was fit to eat thru, and when the eating was over, we drank. But how drink this stuff, when we are not occupied in eating? Legay, bring a flask of Maraschino, if there be one.”
“Do so,” said Andree, for the maid seemed to wait for her orders before obeying those of the baron.
The baron threw himself back in his chair, shut his eyes, and sighed with a grotesque sort of melancholy.
“You were speaking of the Marshal de Richelieu,” said Balsamo, who appeared not inclined to let the conversation drop.
“Yes,” said Taverney, “I was speaking of him,” and he hummed an air as melancholy as his sighs.
“If he hate your son, and if he be right to hate him because he is a philosopher, he must retain all his friendship for you, since you are not one.”
“Philosopher! no, Heaven be praised!”
“You must surely have claims on the administration! You have served the king?”
“Fifteen years. I was the marshal’s aid-de-camp — we served together in the campaign of Mahon. Our friendship is of long standing — let me see; it began at the siege of Philipsbourg — that was in the year 1742 or ‘43.”
“So,” said Balsamo, “you were at the siege of Philipsbourg? I was there myself.” The old man sat upright in his chair and stared at the stranger.
“Excuse me; but what is your age, my respected guest?”
“Oh, I am not old,” said Balsamo, holding out his glass to be filled with Maraschino by the fair hand of Andree. The baron interpreted the stranger’s answer in his own way, and concluded that Balsamo had some reason for concealing his age.
“Sir,” said he, “allow me to say that you do not appear to be old enough to have served at Philipsbourg — that siege took place twenty-eight years ago, and you seem to be about thirty.”
“Oh, anybody might be taken for thirty.”
“Pardieu, then, I wish I could; it is just thirty years since I was that age.
Mademoiselle Andree gazed with increasing and irresistible curiosity on the stranger, for every word revealed him in a new light.
“You astonish me, sir,” said the baron. “Unless you are all this time mistaken in the name, and are thinking of some other town than Philipsbourg. I should say you were not more than thirty; would not you, Andree, say the same?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied she, trying to bear the powerful eye of their guest, but this time again in vain.
“No, no,” said the latter, “I mean what I say — I mean the famous siege of Philipsbourg, at which the Due de Richelieu killed his cousin, the Prince de Lixen, in a duel. The affair took place as they were returning from the trenches, on the high road; he ran his sword right through his body! I passed just as he expired in the arms of the Prince de Deux Ponts; he was seated against the side of a ditch when Richelieu was coolly wiping his sword.”
“On my honor, you amaze me, sir,” said the baron; “it occurred precisely as you say.”
“You have heard the affair described?” asked Balsamo, coolly.
“I was there. I had the honor of being second to the marshal; he was not marshal then, but that is no matter.”
“Let me think.” said Balsamo, turning and gazing firmly on him—” Were you not then a captain?”
“Precisely.”
“You were in the queen’s regiment of light horse, which was cut to pieces at Fontenoy?”
“Perhaps you were at Fontenoy, too?” asked the baron, endeavoring to jest.
“No,” replied Balsamo; “I was dead at that time.”
The baron stared — Andree started — Nicole crossed herself.
“But to return to what we were saying. You wore the uniform of the light horse, I remember perfectly, at that time; I saw you as I passed; you were holding your own and the marshal’s horse, while they fought. I went up to you and asked you about the duel — you gave me the details.”
“I?”
“Yes, you, pardieu! — I recognize you now — you bore the title of chevalier — they called you the little chevalier.”
“Mordieu!” cried the baron, all amazed.
“Excuse me that I did not sooner recognize you; but thirty years change a man. Let us drink the marshal’s health, my dear baron.”
He raised his glass, and drained it to the last drop.
“You saw me there?” cried the baron; “impossible!”
“I saw you,” said Balsamo.
“On the high road?”
“On the high road.”
“Holding the horses?”
“Holding the horses.”
“While the duel was going on?”
“As the prince was expiring, I said.”
“Then you are fifty.”
“I am old enough to have seen what I tell you.”
The baron threw himself back in his chair, but in so ridiculous a pet that Nicole could not help laughing. Andree, instead of laughing, seemed to be in a reverie, her eyes open, and fixed on those of Balsamo. He appeared now to have attained his object. Suddenly rising, he sent from his flaming eyeball two or three lightning flashes full on her. She started, as if from an electric shock. Her arms stiffened, her neck bent, she smiled, yet as if involuntarily, on the stranger, then closed her eyes.
“Do you, also, mademoiselle, believe I speak falsely when I say that I was present at the siege of Philipsbourg?”
“No, sir, I believe you,” she articulated, making a violent effort.
“Then it is I who am only a dotard,” said the baron; “the gentleman, no doubt, has come back from the other world!”
Nicole gazed on him with horror.
“Who knows?” replied Balsamo, in so solemn a tone that he was yet more horrified.
“Well, then, baron,” resumed the old man, “to have done with jesting, are you really more than thirty? — you do not look more!”
“Sir,” said Balsamo, “would you believe me if I told you a very incredible thing?”
“I do not promise that,” said the baron, looking knowing, while Andree listened with eager attention. “I am very incredulous, I must candidly warn you.”
“What use is there, then, in putting a question, when you will not listen to my reply?”
“Well, I will believe you. There! — are you satisfied?”
“Then, sir, I have only to repeat what I have told you, and to add that I knew you personally at the siege of Philipsbourg.”
“Then you must have been a child?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Four or five years old at most?”
“No, I was forty-one.”
The baron burst into a loud fit of laughter, which Nicole re-echoed.
“I told you you would not believe me,” said Balsamo, gravely.
“But how is it possible to believe that? at least, give me some proofs.”
“That is easy. I was forty-one then, but I do not say that I was the man I am.”
“Oh,” cried the baron, “this is going back to paganism. Was there not a philosopher — for those wretches flourished in every century — was there not a Greek philosopher who would not eat beans because he pretended they had had souls, as my son says negroes have — who was he? — what the deuce was his name?”
“Pythagoras,” said Andree.
“Yes, Pythagoras; the Jesuits taught me that. Father Poree made me compose Latin verses on it, with little Arouet. I remember they thought mine much the best. Pythagoras? — yes.”
“Well, how do you know that I am not Pythagoras?” replied Balsamo, quietly.
“I do not deny that you may be Pythagoras, but Pythagoras was not at the siege of Philipsbourg; at least, I did not see him there.”
“No; but you saw the Viscount Jean des Barreaux, who was in the black musketeers.”
“Yes, I knew him well, but he was no philosopher, although he did hate beans, and never ate them when he could help it.”
“Well! Do you recollect, the day after the duel, Des Barreaux was in the trenches with you?”
“Yes, perfectly well.”
“For you know the black musketeers and the light horse always mounted guard together, every seven days.”
“True enough. What next?”
“That very evening the grape-shot fell like hail, and Des Barreaux was dull; he asked you for a pinch of snuff, and you offered him your gold box.”
“On which was the likeness of a female?”
“Exactly. I see her now. She was fair, was she not?”
“Mordieu!” cried the baron, terrified, “you are right. Well, then?”
“Well, then,” continued Balsamo, “as he was taking that pinch of snuff, a ball carried off his head, just in the same way that Marshal Berwick’s was carried away formerly.”
“Alas! yes, I remember,” said the baron; “poor Des Barreaux!”
“And now, sir, you see I must have seen and known you at the siege of Philipsbourg, since I was that very Des Barreaux.”
The baron fell back once more in his chair, almost stupefied at these words; but, recovering, he cried, “Why, this is sorcery — magic! A hundred years ago you would have been burned, my dear guest. Upon my honor, I think I can smell a sort of corpse-like odor!”
“Sir,” said Balsamo, “no true sorcerer or magician has ever yet been burned; it is fools who have anything to do with the faggot. But a truce to this conversation. Mademoiselle de Taverney is asleep; it seems that metaphysics and the occult sciences have few attractions for her.”
In fact, Andree, overcome by an unknown irresistible power, felt her head sink on her breast, like a flower whose cup bends under its weight of dew.
At the last words of Balsamo, she made an effort to shake off the influence that like a subtle fluid stole upon her. She shook her head, arose, seemed about to full, but, supported by Nicole, left the dining-room. At the same moment the face which had been looking in at the window, and which Balsamo had long ago recognized as Gilbert’s, also disappeared. An instant after he heard Andree begin to play with vigor on her harpsichord. He had followed her with his eye as she left the room, and could not help exclaiming triumphantly, as she disappeared, “I may say, like Archimedes, Eureka!”
“Archimedes! Who was he?” asked the baron.
“A good sort of a fellow — a savant whom I knew two thousand one hundred and fifty years ago,” said Balsamo.