The King’s Carriages.
A DULL HEAVY SOUND was heard in the distance, which became stronger and deeper as it advanced. As Gilbert listened, he felt every nerve in his body vibrate painfully.
The people were shouting “God save the king!” It was the fashion then.
Onward came a cloud of prancing horses covered with housings of gold and purple; these were the musketeers, the gendarmes, and Swiss horse-guards. Then followed a massive carriage magnificently decorated.
Gilbert perceived in it a blue ribbon and a majestic head not uncovered. He saw the cold penetrating light of the royal look, before which every form bent and every head was uncovered. Fascinated — motionless — breathless, he forgot to take oil his hat.
A violent blow roused him from his trance; his hat rolled on the ground.
He sprang forward, lifted it up, and looking round, saw the tradesman’s nephew looking at him with that truculent smile which is peculiar to the soldier.
“Well,” said he, “so you don’t take off your hat to the king?”
Gilbert turned pale, and looked at his hat covered with dust.
“It is the first time I ever saw the king,” said he, “and I forgot to salute him, it is true. But I did not know—’
“You did not know?” said the soldier, frowning.
Gilbert feared that he should be driven from the spot where he was so well placed for seeing Andree, and love conquered pride.
“Pardon me,” said he, “I am from the country.”
“And you have come to Paris to be educated, my little man?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gilbert, swallowing his rage.
“Well, since you are seeking instruction,” said the sergeant, arresting Gilbert’s hand as he was just going to put his hat on his head, “learn this; you must take off your hat to the dauphiness as well as to the king, and to their royal highnesses the princes as well as to the dauphiness; in short, you must take it off to all the carriages on which you see the fleur-de-lis. Do you know the fleur-de-lis, my little fellow, or must I show you what it is?”
“Quite unnecessary, sir; I know it.”
“It is well you know even that much.” grumbled the sergeant.
The royal carriages continued to file past. As each reached the door of the convent, it stopped to permit its occupants to alight. This operation caused every five minutes a general halt along the whole line.
At one of these halts, Gilbert felt as if a fiery sword had pierced his heart. He became giddy, everything swam before his eyes, and he trembled so violently that he was forced to grasp his branch more firmly to prevent himself from falling.
About ten paces from him, in one of the carriages with the fleur-de-lis to which the sergeant had desired him to take off his hat, he had just perceived Andree. Dressed in white, and dazzling with beauty, she seemed to his excited eyes some angelic being from a higher sphere.
He uttered a stifled cry; but immediately afterward, conquering his agitation, he commanded his heart to be still and his gaze steady; and so great was his self-control, that he succeeded.
Andree, on her side, wishing to know why the procession had stopped, leaned forward out of the carriage, and directing her clear and limpid gaze around, she perceived Gilbert, and at once recognized him. Gilbert feared that on seeing him she would be surprised and would point him out to her father.
He was not mistaken. With an air of astonishment she turned toward the Baron de Taverney, who, decorated with his red ribbon, sat with great dignity beside her, and directed his attention to Gilbert.
“Gilbert?” cried the baron, starting, “Gilbert here? And who, pray, will take care of Mahon at Taverney?”
The young man heard these words distinctly, and with the most studied respect he bowed to Andree and the baron. It required all his strength to accomplish this feat.
“It is really he!” continued the baron, on perceiving our philosopher. “It is the little rascal himself!”
The idea of Gilbert being in Paris was one so far removed from his thoughts, that, at first he would not believe his daughter’s assertions, and could hardly credit even his own eyes. As for Andree, whom Gilbert examined closely, after the first slight shade of surprise had passed away, her countenance resumed an expression of most perfect calm. The baron leaned out of the carriage window and signed to Gilbert to approach; but as he attempted to obey, the sergeant stopped him.
“You see that I am called,” said he.
“By whom?” demanded the sergeant.
“The gentleman in that carriage.”
The sergeant’s eye followed the direction of Gilbert’s finger, and rested on the Baron de Taverney’s carriage.
“Pray allow him to come this way, sergeant, “said the baron. “I wish to speak to the lad — two words only.”
“Four, sir, four, if you like,” replied the soldier. “You have plenty of time; they are now reading an address at the gate, and I dare say it will occupy half an hour. Pass through, young man.”
“Come hither, you rascal!” said the baron to Gilbert, who affected to walk at his usual pace, “and tell me by what accident it happens you are here when you ought to be at Taverney!”
Gilbert saluted Andree and the baron a second time and replied:
“It was no accident which brought me to Paris, sir; I came hither of my own free will.”
“Your free will, you scoundrel? — Do you talk of your will to me?”
“Why not? Every free man has the right to possess it.”
“Oh, ho! Free man! You imagine yourself free, do you, you little wretch?”
“Certainly I am; I have never sold my freedom to any one.”
“Upon my word, this is an amusing sort of scoundrel!” exclaimed the baron, confounded at the coolness with which Gilbert spoke. “Your freewill led you to Paris! — And how did you travel, pray! — What assistance had you, may I ask?”
“I came on foot.”
“ On foot!” said Andree, with a sort of pity in her tone.
“And pray what do you intend to do in Paris?” inquired the baron.
“To get educated first — then make my fortune.”
“Educated?”
“Yes, I am certain of being educated.”
“Make your fortune?”
“I hope to make it.”
“And in the meantime what do you do? Beg?”
“Beg!” exclaimed Gilbert, with lofty scorn.
“You steal, then?”
“Sir,” said Gilbert, with a look so proud and fierce that it fixed Andree’s attention on him for a moment, “sir, did I ever steal from you?”
“What can your idle hands do but steal?”
“What those of a man of genius do — a man whom I wish to imitate, were it only in his perseverance,” replied Gilbert. “They copy music.”
Andree turned toward him; “Copy music?” said she.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“You know music, then?” inquired she, with the same contemptuous tone in which she would have said, “It is false.”
“I know my notes, and that is enough for a copyist.”
“And how the devil did you learn your notes, you rascal?” cried the baron.
“Yes, how?” added Andree, smiling.
“I love music, sir, passionately, and when Mademoiselle Andree played on the harpsichord every day, I hid myself that I might listen.”
“Good-for-nothing fellow!”
“At first I remembered the airs; then, as they were written in a music-book, by degrees I learned to read the notes from the book.”
“From my music-book?” exclaimed Andree, with the utmost indignation; “did you dare to touch my music-book?”
“No, mademoiselle, I did not permit myself to do so; but as it remained open on the harpsichord, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, I endeavored to read in it, but without touching it. My eyes would not soil the pages.”
“You will see,” cried the baron, “that the fellow will assert next that he plays on the piano like Haydn.”
“I should probably have been able by this time to play,” said Gilbert, “had I dared to place my fingers on the keys.”
Andree again glanced at that face which was animated by a sentiment only to be compared to the fanaticism of a martyr eager for the stake; but the baron, who did not possess his daughter’s clear and comprehensive intellect, felt his choler rise on reflecting that the young man was in the right, and that he had been treated inhumanly in being left with Mahon at Taverney. It is not easy to pardon in an inferior the wrong which he proves you have done him, and the baron therefore became more furious in proportion as his daughter became calm.
“Wretch!” cried he, “you steal away; you go running about like a vagabond, and when questioned about your mode of life, you utter such a tissue of absurdities as those which we have just heard! But it shall not be my fault if rogues and pickpockets infest the king’s highways.”
Andree by a gesture entreated her father to be calm; she felt that ungoverned anger destroys all superiority in the person giving way to it. But the baron thrust aside her hand, which she had placed on his arm, and continued; “I shall recommend you to the notice of the Count de Sartines, and you shall speedily take a turn in the Bicetre, you scarecrow of a philosopher.”
Gilbert stepped back, crushed his hat under his arm, and pale with anger, exclaimed: “Learn, my lord baron, that since I arrived in Paris I have found protectors in whose antechambers your Count de Sartines would be glad to wait.”
“Indeed?” said the baron. “In that case I shall take care, if you escape a prison, that you do not escape a good caning — Andree, call your brother!”
Andree leaned forward out of the carriage and said in a low voice to Gilbert—”Take my advice, M. Gilbert, and retire.”
“Philip, Philip!” shouted the old man.
“Leave us!” said Andree again to the young man, who remained silent and motionless in his place, as if in ecstatic contemplation.
An officer, summoned by the baron’s cries, hurried forward to the carriage door; it was Philip, dressed in his captain’s uniform. The young man was splendidly attired, and seemed in high spirits.
“How! Gilbert?” he exclaimed with a good-humored smile on recognizing the young man. “Gilbert here! How do you do. Gilbert? Well, what do you want with me, my dear father?”
“How do you do, M. Philip?” replied Gilbert.
“What do I want?” said the baron furiously. “I want you, to take the sheath of your sword and chastise this scoundrel!”
“But what has he done?” asked Philip, gazing by turns, with increasing astonishment, at the angry face of his father and the rigid and motionless features of Gilbert.
“Done? he — he — has — beat him, Philip, — beat him like a dog!” cried the baron. Taverney turned to his sister.
“What has he done, Andree? has he insulted you?”
“Insulted her!” repeated Gilbert.
“No. Philip, no!” replied Andree, “he has done nothing wrong; my father is in error. Gilbert is no longer in our service, and has a perfect right to go where he pleases; but my father will not understand this, and is angry at finding him here.”
“Is that all?” said Philip.
“Nothing more, brother; and I cannot imagine why my father should be so angry, particularly on such a subject, and about things and persons that do not deserve even a thought. Philip, look whether the train is moving on.”
The baron was silent, overcome by the lofty serenity of his daughter. Gilbert’s heart sank in his breast, crushed and withered under her contempt. For a moment a feeling akin to hatred darted though his heart. He would have preferred the mortal thrust of Philip’s sword — ay, even a lash of his whip, to her insulting scorn.
He was almost fainting; fortunately the address had now ended, and the cortege once more moved on. The baron’s carriage advanced with the rest, and Andree disappeared from before his eyes like a vision. Gilbert remained alone — he could have wept — he could have groaned aloud — he thought that he could no longer bear the weight of his sufferings
Just then a hand rested on his shoulder. He turned and saw Philip, who, having given his horse to a soldier of his regiment to hold, returned smiling toward him.
“Come, let me hear what has happened, my poor Gilbert,” said he, “and why you have come to Paris.”
His frank and cordial tone touched the young man’s heart.
“Oh, sir,” replied he, with a sigh, his stern stoicism melting at once, “what would I have done at Taverney, I ask you? I must have died of despair, ignorance, and hunger.”
Philip started; his generous heart was struck, as Andree’s had been, by the misery and destitution in which Gilbert had been left.
“And you think, my poor fellow, to succeed in Paris without money, protectors, or resources?”
“I trust so, sir. A man who is willing to work rarely dies of hunger, where there are other men who wish to do nothing.”
Philip was struck by this reply; until then he had always looked on Gilbert as a commonplace domestic.
“But have you any means of buying food?” said he.
“I can earn my daily bread, M. Philip. That is sufficient for one who has never had any cause for self-reproach, but that of having eaten bread not gained by his toil.”
“I hope you do not say so with reference to that which you received at Taverney, my poor lad. Your father and mother were faithful servants, and you were always willing to make yourself useful.”
“I only did my duty, sir.”
“Listen to me, Gilbert. You are aware that I always liked you. I have always looked upon you in a more favorable light than others, whether justly or the reverse the future will show. What others called haughty pride, I termed delicacy; where others saw rudeness and ill-breeding, I perceived only honest bluntness.”
“Ah, chevalier!” said Gilbert, breathing more freely.
“I really wish you well, Gilbert.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Young like you, and like you also in an unhappy position. I was perhaps on that account more disposed to feel for and pity you. Fortune has blessed me with abundance; let me assist you until fortune smiles on you in your turn.”
“Thanks, sir, many thanks.”
“What do you think of doing? You’re too proud to accept of a situation as servant.”
Gilbert shook his head with a scornful smile. “I wish to study,” said he.
“But in order to study you must have masters, and to pay them you must have money.”
“I can earn money, sir.”
“Earn money? How much can you earn?”
“ Twenty-five sous a day, and in a short time perhaps thirty and even forty sous.” “But that is barely enough for food.”
Gilbert smiled.
“Perhaps,” continued Philip. “I am not taking the right way of offering you my services.”
“Your services to me, M. Philip!”
“Yes, my services. Are you ashamed to accept them?”
Gilbert made no answer.
“Men are sent on earth to aid one another,” continued Maison-Rouge. “Are we not all brethren?”
Gilbert raised his head and fixed his intelligent gaze on the chevalier’s noble countenance.
“Does this language surprise you?” said he.
“No, sir,” said Gilbert, “it is the language of philosophy; but it is not usual to hear such from persons of your rank.”
“Yet it is the language of the times. The dauphin himself shares in these sentiments. Come, do not be proud with me,” continued Philip. “What I lend you, you can repay me one day or other. Who knows but you may yet be a Colbert or a Vauban?”
“Or a Tronchin.” said Gilbert.
“Yes, or a Tronchin. Here is my purse, let me share its contents with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the indomitable Gilbert, moved in spite of himself by Philip’s genial kindness; “but I do not want anything — only — only — believe me, I am as grateful to you as if I had accepted your offer.”
And, bowing, he disappeared in the crowd, leaving the young captain lost in astonishment. The latter waited a few minutes, as if he could not believe his eyes or ears, but finding that Gilbert did not return, he mounted his horse and returned to his post.