The Return From Saint Denis.
AFTER LEAVING Philip, Gilbert, as we have said, had re-entered the crowd. But not now with a heart bounding with joyful anticipation did he throw himself into the noisy billow of human beings; his soul was wounded to the quick, and Philip’s kind reception of him, and all his friendly offers of assistance, had no power to soothe him.
Andree never suspected that she had been cruel to Gilbert. The lovely and serene young girl was entirely ignorant that there could be between her and the son of her nurse any point of contact either for pain or for pleasure. She revolved above all the lower spheres of life, casting light or shadow on them according as she herself was gay or sad. But now the shadow of her disdain had fallen on Gilbert and frozen him to the soul, while she, following only the impulse of her nature, knew not even that she had been scornful. But Gilbert, like a gladiator disarmed, had offered his naked breast to the full brunt of her haughty looks and disdainful words, and now, bleeding at every pore, his philosophy suggested nothing better than the consolation of despair.
From the moment that he once more plunged into the crowd, he cared neither for horses nor men. Collecting all his strength, he dashed forward like a — wild boar with a spear in its side, and, at the risk of being crushed or trodden under foot, he opened a passage for himself through the multitude. When the denser mass of the people had been crossed, he began to breathe more freely, and looking round, he discovered that he was alone, and that around him was the green grass, the cool water, and solitude.
Without knowing whither he was going, he had advanced toward the Seine, and he now found himself opposite the isle of St. Denis. Exhausted, not from fatigue of body but from anguish of mind, he sunk on the turf, and grasping his head with both hands, he began to roar hoarsely, as if by these inarticulate sounds alone could he express his rage and grief.
All those vague and senseless hopes which until then had shed a glimmering light on the darkness of his soul, and whose existence he scarcely ventured to confess even to himself, were now at one blow utterly annihilated. To whatsoever height genius, science, or study might raise him in the social scale, he must to Andree always remain the Gilbert that he had been; a thing or a man — to use her own words to her father — not worth the slightest regard, not worth even the trouble of being looked down on.
For a moment he had thought that, seeing him in Paris, learning that he had come on foot, knowing that he had determined to struggle out of obscurity into light — he had thought that Andree would applaud his resolution; but, instead of applause, what had he met with as the reward of so much fatigue and of Such firm determination? The same scornful indifference with which he had been treated at Taverney. Even more — was she not almost angry when she heard that his eyes had had the audacity to look on her music-book? Had he only touched that music-book with the tip of his finger, he would have been doubtless considered only worthy to be burned at the stake.
By weak characters, any deception, any mistake, with regard to those they love, is quickly forgotten, and they bend under the blow only to rise again stronger and more persevering than before. They vent their sufferings in complaints and tears, but their resistance is only passive; nay, their love often increases by that which should destroy it, and they whisper to themselves that their submissiveness will at last have its reward. Toward that reward they steadfastly advance, whether the road be easy or the reverse; if it be unfavorable, they will be longer in attaining their end, that is all, but they will attain it at last.
It is not thus with strong minds, obstinate natures, and powerful wills. They are indignant when they see their own blood flowing; at the sight their energy augments so furiously that they seem to hate rather than to love. Indeed, with them love and hate are so closely allied that they often are not aware of the transition from one to the other. So it was with Gilbert. When he flung himself on the ground, overcome by his feelings, did he love or hate Andree? He knew not; he suffered intensely, that was all. But, not having the virtue of long-suffering, he shook off his dejection of soul, and determined to carry into practice some energetic resolution.
“She does not love me!” thought he, “it is true; but had I any right to hope that she would? The only feeling that I had a right to hope for was that kindly interest which attaches to the unfortunate who strive with energy to rise above their wretchedness. Her brother felt this; she did not feel it. He said, ‘Who knows? perhaps you may become a Colbert, a Vauban!’ If I became either one or other he would do me justice; he would give me his sister as a reward for the glory I had won for myself, as he would now give her in exchange for my personal nobility, had I been born his equal. But as for her — oh yes! I feel it — yes, although Colbert or Vauban, I should never be to her other than Gilbert! What she despises in me is what nothing can efface, nothing gild, nothing cover — it is the lowness of ray birth. As if, supposing I attain my object, I should not then be greater, having risen to her level, than if I had been born beside her! Ah, senseless, unthinking creature! Woman! — woman! — that is, imperfection! Do you trust in her open look, her expansive forehead, her beaming smile, her queenly carriage, her beauty which makes her worthy to be an empress? Fool! she is an affected, starched country girl, bound up, swathed, in aristocratic prejudices. The gay and showy young noblemen with empty heads — mere weathercocks — who have all the means and appliances for learning, but who know nothing — they are her equals; they are things and men on whom she may bestow attention! But Gilbert? — Gilbert is a dog — nay, lower than a dog I She asked, I think, for news of Mahon; she did not ask how it had fared with Gilbert. Oh, she knows not then that I am as strong as they! — That, if clothed like them, I should be as handsome! — that I have what they have not, an inflexible will; and that if I wished—”
A threatening smile curled his lip, and he left the sentence unfinished; then slowly, and with a deep frown, his head sank on his breast. What passed at that moment in his dark and gloomy soul? Under what terrible idea did that pale forehead, already furrowed with painful thoughts, droop? Who shall tell? Is it the boatman who slowly glides down the river in his skiff, humming the song of Henri-Quatre? Is it the laughing washerwoman who is returning from the splendid scene at St. Denis, and who, turning aside from her path to avoid him, probably takes the young loiterer for a thief, lying as he is at full length on the grass amid the lines hung with linen.
After half an hour’s reflection, Gilbert arose, calm and resolved. He approached the bank of the Seine, and refreshed himself with a deep draught of water; then, looking around, he saw on his left the distant waves of people pouring out of St. Denis. Amid the throng he could distinguish the principal carriages forced to go slowly from the crowd of spectators that pressed on them, and taking the road to St. Ouen.
The dauphiness had expressed a desire that her entrance into the kingdom should be a family festival, and the good Parisians had taken advantage of this kind wish to place their families so near the royal train, and many of them had mounted on the seats of the footmen, and some held on by the heavy springs which projected from the carriages, without manifesting the least fear.
Gilbert soon recognized Andree’s carriage; Philip was galloping, or rather, we should say, reining in his prancing horse, close beside it.
“It is well,” said he; “I must know whither she is going, and for that purpose I must follow her.”
The dauphiness was to sup at Muette in private with the king, the dauphin, the Count de Provence, and the Count d’Artois. At St. Denis the king had invited the dauphiness, and had given her a list of the guests and a pencil, desiring her to erase the name of any one whom she did not wish to be present. Now, it must be confessed that Louis carried his forgetfulness of the respect due to her so far as to include in it the name of Madame Dubarry. It was the last on the list, and when the dauphiness reached it her cheek turned pale and her lip quivered; but, following the instructions of the empress her mother, she recovered her self-possession, and with a sweet smile returning the list and the pencil to the king, she expressed herself most happy to be admitted thus from the first to the intimacy of his family circle.
Gilbert knew nothing of all this, and it was only at Muette that he discovered the equipage of the countess, followed by Zamore on his tall white charger. Fortunately it was dark; and, concealing himself behind a clump of trees, he lay down and waited.
The king supped with his daughter-in-law and his mistress, and was in charming spirits; more especially when he saw the dauphiness receive the countess even more graciously than she had done at Compiegne. But the dauphin seemed grave and anxious, and, pretending that he suffered from a violent headache, retired before they sat down to supper. The entertainment was prolonged until eleven o’clock.
In the meantime the retinue of the dauphiness — and the haughty Andree was forced to acknowledge that she formed one of them — supped in tents to the music of the king’s private band, who had been ordered to attend for that purpose. Besides these — as the tents could not accommodate all — fifty gentlemen supped at tables spread in the open air, waited on by fifty lackeys in the royal livery.
Gilbert, still hidden in the clump of trees, lost nothing of this spectacle; while he supped at the same time as the others on a piece of bread which he had bought at Clichy-la-Garenne.
After supper, the dauphiness and the king appeared on a balcony to take leave of their guests. As each person departed, he passed below the balcony to salute his majesty and her royal highness. The dauphiness already knew many who had accompanied her from Compiegne, and those whom she did not know the king named to her. From time to time, a gracious word, or a well-turned compliment fell from her lips, diffusing joy in the breasts of those to whom it was addressed.
Gilbert, from his distant post, saw the meanness of their homage, and murmured, “I am greater than those people, since for all the gold in the world I would not do what they are doing.”
At last the turn of the Baron de Taverney and his family came. Gilbert rose on one knee.
“M. Philip,” said the dauphiness, “I give you leave of absence, in order that you may accompany your father and your sister to Paris.”
Gilbert heard these words distinctly, which, in the silence of the night, and amid the respectful attention of all around, vibrated in his ears.
Then she added; “Monsieur de Taverney, I cannot promise you apartments until I install my household at Versailles. You can, therefore, in the meantime, accompany your daughter to Paris. Do not forget me, mademoiselle.”
The baron passed on with his son and daughter. They were succeeded by many others, to whom the dauphiness made similar speeches, but Gilbert cared no longer for her words. He glided out of the clump of trees and followed the baron amid the confused cries of two hundred footmen running after their masters and calling to a hundred coachmen, while their shouts were accompanied by the thundering of numerous carriages rolling along the paved road.
As the baron had one of the carriages of the court at his command, it waited for them apart from the general crowd. When, accompanied by Andree and Philip, he had entered it, the latter said to the footman who was closing the door, “Mount on the seat beside the coachman, my friend.”
“Why so? why so?” asked the baron, hastily.
“Because the poor devil has been on his legs since morning, and must be tired by this time.”
The baron grumbled something which Gilbert did not hear, while the footman mounted beside the coachman.
Gilbert drew nearer. At the moment when they were about to start, it was perceived that the trace had become unbuckled. The coachman jumped down, and the coach remained for a few moments stationary.
“It is very late,” said the baron.
“I am dreadfully fatigued,” said Andree. “Are you sure we shall get beds?” “I hope so.” said Philip; “I sent on La Brie and Nicole from Soissons with a letter to a friend of mine, desiring him to engage a small garden pavilion for us, which his mother and sister occupied last year. It is not a very splendid abode, but it is suitable enough; you do not wish to receive company — you only want a stopping-place for the present.”
“Faith,” exclaimed the baron, “whatever it is, it will be better than Taverney.”
“Unfortunately, father, that is true,” replied Philip, in a melancholy tone.
“Are there any trees?” asked Andree.
“Oh yes; and very fine ones too. But, in all probability, you will not have long to enjoy them, for as soon as the marriage is over, you will be presented at court.”
“Well, this is all a dream, I fear.” said the baron; “do not awake us too soon, Philip. Have you given the proper direction to the coachman?”
Gilbert listened anxiously.
“Yes, father.”
Gilbert, who had heard all this conversation, had for a moment hoped to discover the address.
“No, matter,” said he, “I shall follow them; it is only a league to Paris.”
The trace was fastened, the coachman mounted his seat, and the carriage was again in motion.
But the king’s horses go fast when they are not in a procession which obliges them to go slowly, and now they darted forward so rapidly that they recalled to poor Gilbert’s recollection the road to Lachaussee, his weakness, and his fainting. He made an effort and reached the footboard behind, which was vacant, as the weary footman was seated beside the coachman. Gilbert grasped it, sprang up, and seated himself. But scarcely bad he done so, when the thought struck him that he was behind Andree’s carriage, and in the footman’s place.
“No, no,” muttered the inflexible young man, “it shall never be said that I did not struggle to the last; my legs are tired, but my arms are strong.”
Then seizing the footboard with his hands, he followed at full speed, supported by the strength of his arms, and keeping his hold in spite of jolts and shocks, rather than capitulate with his conscience.
“At least I shall know her address,” murmured he. “True, I shall have to pass one more bad night; but to-morrow I shall rest while I copy my music. Besides, I have still some money, and I may take two hours for sleep if I like.”
Then he reflected that as Paris was such a large place, and as he was quite unacquainted with it, he might lose his way after the baron and his daughter should have entered the house chosen for them by Philip. Fortunately it was then near midnight, and day would break at halfpast three.
As all these reflections passed through Gilbert’s mind, he remarked that they were passing through a spacious square, in the center of which was a large equestrian statue.
“Ha! This looks like the Place des Victoires,” cried he, with a mingled sensation of surprise and joy.
The carriage turned. Andree put her head out of the window and looked back. “It is the statue of the late king,” said Philip; “we are now near the house.”
They descended a steep street so rapidly that Gilbert was nearly thrown under the wheels.
“Here we are, at last!” cried Philip.
Gilbert sprang aside, and hid himself behind the corner of the neighboring street.
Philip leaped out, rang the bell, and turning, received Andree in his arms.
The baron got out last.
“Well, “cried he, “are those scoundrels going to keep us here all night!”
At that moment the voices of La Brie and Nicole were heard, and a gate was opened. The three travelers disappeared in a dark court, and the gate closed behind them.
The carriage drove off on its way to the king’s stable. The house which had received the strangers was in no way remarkable in, its appearance; but the lamps of the carriage, in passing, had flashed on that next to it, and Gilbert read over the gateway the words;’ Hotel d’Annenonville.”
It only remained for him to discover the name of the street. He gained the nearest extremity, that by which the carriage had disappeared, and to his great surprise, he found himself close to the fountain at which he was in the habit of drinking. He advanced a few steps farther in a street parallel to that which he had left, and discovered the baker’s shop where he usually bought his loaf. Doubting still, he went back to the corner of the street; and there, by the light of a neighboring lamp, he read the words which had struck him when returning with Rousseau from their botanical excursion in the forest of Meudon three days before — Rue Plastriere! Andree, consequently, was not one hundred paces distant from him — not so far off as she had been at Taverney, when he slept in his little room at the castle gate!”
Then he regained his domicile, scarcely daring to hope to find the end of the cord left out, by which the latch of the door was lifted. But Gilbert’s star was in the ascendant; a few raveled threads were hanging out, by which he pulled the whole, and the door opened gently at his touch.
He felt his way to the stairs, mounted step by step without making the least noise, and at last put his hand on the padlock of the garret door, in which Rousseau had kindly left the key.
Ten minutes afterward, fatigue asserted its power over his disquieted thoughts, and he slept soundly, although longing for the morrow.