Gilbert’s Crown-piece.
AFTER HALF an hour’s headlong race, Gilbert uttered a wild shriek of joy; he saw the carriage about a quarter of a league before him, slowly ascending a hill. He felt his heart dilate with pride, as he thought that he, with only youth, strength, spirit, was about to do all that wealth, power, and rank could accomplish. Then, indeed, might the baron have called Gilbert a philosopher, had he seen him, his stick on his shoulder, his small bundle slung on it, walking on with rapid strides, leaping down every slope which could shorten his path, and stopping at every ascent, chafing with impatience, as if saying to the horses, “You do not go fast enough for me; see, I am obliged to wait for you.”
Philosopher? Yes! and he deserved the name, if it be philosophy to despise all that contributes to ease and to enjoyment. It was an interesting spectacle, one worthy of the Creator of energetic and intelligent creatures, to see the young man bounding forward on his way, all dusty and panting, for an hour or more, until he had overtaken the carriage, and then resting with delight when the horses were compelled to pause for breath. Gilbert that day must have inspired every one with admiration who could have followed him in spirit as we do; and who knows but that even the proud Andree might have been moved could she have seen him, and that her contempt for his indolence would have changed to admiration of his energy?
The day passed on in this manner. The baron stopped an hour at Bar-le-Duc, which gave Gilbert time to get in advance of him. He had heard the order to stop at the goldsmith’s; so, having passed the town, by a detour, without entering it, he hid in a thicket until he saw the carriage coming, and when it had passed, followed it as before. Toward evening it came up with the train of the dauphiness, at the little village of Brillon, the inhabitants of which were crowded on a neighboring hill, and made the air resound with their shouts of welcome. Gilbert had not eaten a morsel during the entire day, except a morsel of bread which he had brought with him from Taverney; but, in return, he had drunk plentifully from a rivulet which crossed the road, and the water of which was so fresh and limpid, that Andree had requested that the carriage might stop, and alighted herself to fill the chased cup, the only article of Balsamo’s service which the baron could be persuaded to retain. Gilbert saw all this, hidden by some trees on the roadside. Then, when the carriage had passed on, he emerged from his hiding place, and advancing to the stream, at the same spot where Mademoiselle Taverney had stood, he lifted the water in his hand, and drank from the same source.
Evening came on, shrouding the landscape in her dusty mantle, until at last he saw nothing but the light from the large lanterns which were fastened on each side of the carriage; this pale gleam, ever hurrying onward in the distance, looked like a phantom impelled forward by some strange destiny. Then night came on. They had traveled twelve leagues; they were at Combles. The equipages stopped — Gilbert was sure that it was for the night, that he should have time to stop for a couple of hours in a barn, and how vigorously should he afterward pursue his way! He approached to listen for Andree’s voice — the carriage still continued stationary. He glided into a deep doorway; he saw Andree by the glare of the torch-light, and heard her asking what hour it was. A voice replied, “Eleven o’clock.” At that moment Gilbert no longer felt fatigue, and would have rejected with scorn an offer of a seat in a vehicle. Versailles already appeared in view — Versailles, all gilded, shining, the city of nobles and kings! — and beyond appeared Paris, grim, immense — the city of the people!
Two things roused him from his ecstasy — the noise of the carriages setting out again, and the complaints of his stomach, which cried “hunger!” very distinctly. On went the carriages, Gilbert following, his hunger unappeased. At midnight they stopped at, Saint Dizier. For the night? No! only to change horses; while, in the meantime, the illustrious travelers took a little refreshment by torch-light.
Gilbert had need of all his courage, and he sprang to his feet from the bank where he had seated himself, as he heard them depart, with an energy of determination which made him forget that, ten minutes before, his wearied legs had bent under him in spite of all his efforts.
“Well,” cried he, “go, go! — I shall stop also for refreshment at Saint Dizier; I shall buy some bread and a slice of bacon; I shall drink a glass of wine, and for five sous I shall be refreshed as well as the masters.”
Gilbert entered the town. The train having passed, the good folks were closing their doors and shutters; but our philosopher saw a good-looking inn not yet shut up, where the large dishes of fowls and other things showed that the attendants of the dauphiness had only had time to levy a very slight contribution. He entered the kitchen resolutely; the hostess was there, counting what her gains had been.
“Excuse me, madame; but can I have some bread and ham?” said Gilbert.
“We have no ham, but you can have fowl.”
“No, thank you; I ask for ham because I wish for ham — I don’t like fowl.”
“That is a pity, my little fellow, for we have only fowl; but it shall not be dearer,” she added, smiling, “than ham. Take half a one, or, indeed, take a whole one for tenpence, and that will be provision for you for to-morrow. We thought her royal highness would have stayed all night, and that we should have sold all these things to the attendants; but, as she only just passed through, they will be wasted.”
One would have thought that, the offer being so good, and the hostess so kind, Gilbert would have gladly embraced it; but that would be to have misunderstood his character entirely.
“No, thank you,” replied he, “I shall satisfy myself in a more humble manner; I am neither a prince nor a footman.”
“Well, then,” said the good woman, “I will give you the fowl, my little Artaban.”
“I am not a beggar, either,” replied he, in a mortified tone, “I buy what I wish, and pay for it.”
And he majestically plunged his hand into his breeches’ pocket; it went down to the elbow — in vain he fumbled in his vast pocket, turning paler and paler. The paper in which the crown had been, he found — but the crown was gone! Tossed about by his rapid movements, it had worn the paper, then the thin lining of his pocket, and had slipped out at his knee; for he had unfastened his garters to give freer play to his limbs.
His paleness and trembling touched the good woman. Many in her place would have rejoiced at his pride being brought down; but she felt for him, seeing suffering so powerfully expressed in the changes of his countenance.
“Come, my poor boy!” said she, “you shall sup and sleep here; then, to-morrow, if you must go on, you shall do so.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Gilbert, “I must go on — not to-morrow, but now — now!”
And snatching up his bundle without waiting to hear more, he darted out of the house, to hide his shame and grief in the darkness. He rushed on, alone, truly alone in the world; for no man is more alone than he who has just parted with his last crown — more particularly if it be the only one he ever possessed.
To turn back to look for his crown would have been to begin a hopeless task — besides, it would make it impossible for him ever to come up with the carriages. He resolved to continue his way. After he had gone about a league, hunger, which his mental suffering had made him forget for a time, awoke more keen than ever. Weariness also seized on every limb — on every sinew; yet, by incredible efforts, he had once more come in sight of the carriages. But fate, it would seem, had decided against him. They stopped only to change horses, and so quickly, that he had not five minutes to rest himself.
Again he set out. The day began to dawn — the sun appeared above a broad circle of dark clouds, foretelling one of those burning days of May which sometimes precede the heats of summer. How could Gilbert bear the noon of that day? In his pride he thought that horses — men — the destinies — had united against him — him alone! Like Ajax, he shook his clenched fist at the heavens; and if he did not say, like him, “I shall escape in spite of the gods!” it was because he knew by heart “The Social Contract” better than the Odyssey. At last, however, as Gilbert had dreaded, the moment arrived when he found the utter impossibility of proceeding much farther. By a last and almost despairing effort, he summoned up all his remaining force, and once more overtook the carriages, of which he had previously lost sight, and which, under the influence of his heated and feverish imagination, he fancied were surrounded with a strange, fantastic halo.
The noise of the wheels sounded like thunder in his ears, and almost maddened his brain; he staggered on, his blackened lips wide apart — his eyes fixed and staring — his long hair clinging to his forehead, bathed in perspiration — and his movements seeming rather the effect of some clever piece of mechanism than those of a thinking being. Since the evening before he had traveled upward of twenty leagues, and his weary and fainting limbs now refused to carry him farther. A mist overspread his eyes — strange noises sounded in his ears — the earth seemed to reel under him — he endeavored to utter a cry, and staggered forward, beating the air wildly with his arms. At last his voice returned to utter hoarse cries of rage against his conquerors. Then, tearing his hair with both hands, he reeled forward, and fell heavily to the ground — with the consolation of having, like a hero of antiquity, fought the battle to the last!
“Hallo, there! Hallo, madman!” cried a hoarse voice just as he fell, accompanying his shouts with the loud cracking of a whip.
Gilbert heard him not — he had fainted.
“Hallo! I say — hallo! Morbleu! the fellow will be smashed!” And this time his words were accompanied by a vigorous lash, which reached Gilbert’s waist, and cut into the flesh.
But Gilbert felt nothing — he remained immovable under the feet of the horses of a carriage, which was issuing into the high road from a by-way between Thieblemont and Vauclere.
A shrill cry was heard from the carriage, which the horses carried along like a whirlwind. The postilion made an almost superhuman effort, but could not prevent one of the horses, which was placed as a leader, from leaping over Gilbert. The other two, however, he succeeded in pulling up. A lady stretched her body half out of the carriage. “Heavens!” cried she, “you have killed the poor boy!”
“Why, faith, madame,” replied the postilion, endeavoring to discover the body amid the cloud of dust which the horses’ feet had raised, “I am almost afraid we have.”
“Poor creature — poor boy. Do not move a step farther!” and opening the door of the carriage herself, she sprang out.
The postilion had already alighted, and dragging Gilbert’s body from between the wheels, he expected to find it bruised and bloody; the lady assisted him with all her force.
“What an escape!” he cried, “not a scratch — not a kick!”
“But he has fainted,” said the lady.
“Only from fear. Let us place him against the bank; and, since madame is in haste, let us go on.”
“Impossible. I would not leave any creature in such a state.”
“Pooh! it’s nothing, madame; he will soon recover.”
“No, no! — poor fellow! he is some runaway lad from college, and has undertaken a journey beyond his strength. See how pale he is; he might die. No; I will not leave him. Lift him into the carriage, on the front seat.”
The postilion obeyed — the lady got in — Gilbert was laid lengthways on a good cushion, his head supported by the well-stuffed side of the carriage.
“And now.” cried the lady, “we have lost ten minutes — a crown if you make up for them.”
The postilion cracked his whip above his head; the horses knew what this threatened, and set off at a gallop.