The Garden Pavilion.
HAVING COME in late, and thrown himself hastily on his bed, Gilbert had forgotten to place over his window the blind which intercepted the light of the rising sun. At five o’clock, therefore, the rays of light beaming through the window awoke him. He sprang up, fearing that he had slept too long.
Accustomed as he had been to a country life, Gilbert could guess the hour at all times with the utmost precision by the direction of the shadows, and by the paler or warmer tints of light. He ran, therefore, to consult his clock.
The faintness of the morning beams, barely tinging with their light the topmost boughs of the trees, reassured him; and he found that instead of having risen too late, he had risen too early. He finished his toilet at the garret window, thinking over the events of the preceding day, and exposing with delight his burning and oppressed forehead to the refreshing morning breeze. Then he remembered that Andree lodged in the next street, near the Hotel d’Armenonville, and he tried to guess in which of all the houses that he saw she might be.
The sight of the lofty trees on which he looked down, recalled her question to Philip—’Are there any trees there?”
“Might they not have chosen that uninhabited house in the garden?” said Gilbert to himself.
This idea naturally led him to fix his attention on the garden pavilion, where, by a singular coincidence, a sort of noise and stir began to be apparent.
One of the window-shutters of the little abode, which had not been opened apparently for a considerable time, was shaken by an awkward or feeble hand. The wood yielded above, but held fast, by the damp no doubt, to the frame at the bottom, it resisted the effort made to open it. A second shake more violent than the first had a better effect; the two shutters creaked, gave way, and falling back quickly, exposed to view a young girl all in a glow with her exertions, and beating off the dust from her hands.
Gilbert uttered a cry of surprise, and stepped back. The young girl whose face was still flushed with sleep, and who was stretching herself in the fresh air, was Mademoiselle Nicole.
There was no longer any room for doubt. The lodging which Philip had said La Brie and Nicole were preparing was the house before him, and the mansion through whose gateway he had seen the travelers disappear must have its gardens adjoining the rear of the Rue Plastriere. Gilbert’s movement was so abrupt, that if Nicole had not been completely absorbed in the lazy meditations so delightful at the moment of waking, she must have discovered our philosopher at his skylight.
But Gilbert had retired all the more speedily, as he had no intention that Nicole, of all persons in the world, should spy him out in so elevated a situation. Had he been on a first-floor, and had his open window showed a background of rich hangings or sumptuous furniture, he would not have been so anxious to avoid her eye; but a garret on the fifth story declared him to be still so low in the social scale, that he took the greatest care to hide himself. Moreover, there is always, in this world, a great advantage in seeing without being seen. And then, if Andree should discover that he watched her, would it not be sufficient either to induce her to change her abode, or prevent her walking in the garden?
Alas! Gilbert’s pride still made him of too great importance in his own eyes. What was Gilbert to Andree? Would she have moved her finger, either to approach or to avoid him? But these were far from being Nicole’s sentiments, and her, consequently, he must shun.
He hid himself carefully therefore; but as he did not wish to withdraw from the window entirely, he ventured to peep out cautiously at one corner.
A second window on the ground-floor of the pavilion, exactly below the first, just then opened, and a white form appeared at it. It was Andree, seemingly just awakened. She was enveloped in a dressing-gown, and was occupied in searching for the slipper which had escaped from her tiny foot, and was lying beneath a chair. It was in vain that Gilbert, each time that he saw Andree, vowed to build up between them a barrier of hatred instead of giving way to love; the same effect was produced by the same cause. He was obliged to lean against the wall for support; his heart palpitated as if it would have burst, and sent the blood in boiling currents through his whole frame. However, by degrees, his throbbing arteries beat with a calmer motion, and reflection resumed her sway. The problem he had to solve was, as we have said, to see without being seen. He took one of Therese’s gowns and fastened it with a pin to one of the cords which crossed his window; and, sheltered by this impromptu curtain, he could watch Andree without running any risk of being discovered by her. The lovely young girl, following Nicole’s example, stretched out her snowy arms, and then, folding them on the window, she looked out on the garden. Her countenance expressed the liveliest satisfaction at all she saw. Lofty trees shaded the walks with their drooping branches, and everywhere verdure cheered her eye. She, who smiled so seldom on human beings, smiled on the inanimate objects around her.
The house in which Gilbert lived attracted her eye for a moment, like all the others which surrounded the garden; but as from her apartment only the garrets of the houses were visible, and, consequently, from them alone could she be seen, she paid no farther attention. How could the proud young girl take any interest in the concerns of a race so far removed from her sphere? Andree felt convinced, therefore, that no one saw her by whom it was of the least importance that she should not be seen, and that within the bounds of her tranquil retreat there appeared none of those prying or satirical Parisian faces so much dreaded by ladies from the provinces.
The effect was immediate. Leaving her window wide open, so that the fresh and perfumed air might penetrate to the farthest extremity of her apartment, she proceeded toward the mantelpiece and rang a bell.
Nicole appeared, undid the straps of a shagreen dressing-case of the reign of Queen Anne, took from it a tortoise-shell comb, and began to comb out Andree’s hair. In a moment the long tresses and shining curls spread like a glossy veil over her shoulders.
Gilbert gave a stifled sigh. At that distance he scarcely saw the beauty of her locks, but he saw Andree herself, a thousand times more lovely in this deshabille than she would have been in the most splendid attire. He grazed, his whole soul in his eyes.
By chance, as Nicole continued to dress her hair, Andree raised her eyes and fixed them on Gilbert’s garret.
“Yes, yes!” said he, “look — gaze, as much as you please — it is all in vain — you can see nothing, and I see all.”
But Gilbert was mistaken; Andree did see something. It was the gown which he had hung up, and which, being blown about, had got wrapped round his head like a turban. She pointed out this strange object to Nicole.
Nicole, stopping in her complicated task, pointed with the comb which she held in her hand toward the skylight, and seemed to ask her mistress if that were the object which she meant.
All these gestures, which Gilbert devoured with the greatest eagerness, had, without his suspecting it, a third spectator. Suddenly a rude hand snatched Therese’s gown from his head, and he was ready to sink with shame on seeing Rousseau beside him.
“What the devil are you doing there, sir?” cried the philosopher, with a terrible frown, and a scrutinizing glance at the gown borrowed, without leave asked, from his wife.
“Nothing, sir, nothing at all,” replied Gilbert, endeavoring to turn Rousseau’s attention from the window.
“Nothing? Then why did you hide yourself with the gown?”
“The sun hurts my eyes.”
“This window looks toward the west, and the sun dazzles you when rising? You have very delicate eyes, young man!”
Gilbert stammered out some unconnected words, but, feeling that he was only getting deeper in the mire, he at last hid his head in his hands.
“You are speaking falsely, and you are afraid,” said Rousseau; “therefore you have been doing wrong.”
After this terrible syllogism, which seemed to complete Gilbert’s confusion. Rousseau planted himself exactly opposite the window.
From a feeling too natural to require explanation, Gilbert, who so lately trembled to be discovered at the window, rushed forward when he saw Rousseau standing before it.
“Ah, ah!” said the latter, in a tone which froze the blood in Gilbert’s reins; “the garden-house is inhabited now.”
Gilbert was dumb.
“And by persons,” continued the philosopher, “who seem to know my house, for they are pointing to it.”
Gilbert, trembling lest he had advanced too far, stepped back quickly; but neither his movement, nor the cause which produced it, escaped the jealous eye of Rousseau; he saw that Gilbert feared to be seen.
“No.” cried he, seizing the young man by the arm, “you shall not escape, my young friend; there is some plot under this, I know by their pointing to your garret. Place yourself here, if you please; “and he dragged him opposite the skylight, in the full view of those beneath.—”Oh! no, sir; no — have mercy!” cried Gilbert, struggling to escape.
But to escape, which for a young and active man like Gilbert would have been an easy task, he must have engaged in a contest with Rousseau — Rousseau, whom he venerated like some superior being — and respect restrained him.
“You know those women,” said Rousseau; “and they know you?”
“No, no, no, sir!”
“Then, if you do not know them, and if they do not know you, why not show yourself?”
“Monsieur Rousseau, you have sometimes had secrets yourself. Show some pity for mine.”
“Ah! traitor!” cried Rousseau. “Yes, I know what sort of a secret yours is. You are a creature of Grimm or Holbach’s — you have been tutored to act a part in order to impose upon my benevolence — you have gained admittance into my house, and now you betray me to them. Oh, thrice-sodden fool that I am! Silly lover of nature! I thought I was aiding a fellow-creature, and I was bringing a spy into my house!”
“A spy!” exclaimed Gilbert, indignantly.
“Come, Judas, on what day am I to be sold?” continued Rousseau, folding Therese’s gown tragically about him, and thinking himself sublime in his grief, when unfortunately he was only ridiculous.
“Sir, you calumniate me,” said Gilbert.
“Calumniate you, you little serpent!” exclaimed Rousseau. “Did I not find you corresponding with my enemies by signs? Making them understand, perhaps, what is the subject of my new work?”
“Sir, had I gained admittance to your house in order to betray the secret of your work, it would have been easier for me to copy some of the manuscripts in your desk than to inform others of the subject by signs.”
This was true; and Rousseau felt so plainly that he had given utterance to one of those absurdities which escaped him when his monomania of suspicion was at its height, that he got angry.
“Sir,” said he, “I am sorry for you, but experience has made me severe. My life has been one long series of deceptions. I have been ever the victim of treachery; I have been betrayed, sold, made a martyr, by every one that surrounded me. I am, you must be aware, one of those illustrious unfortunates on whom government has put its ban. In such a situation it is pardonable to be suspicious. Now, I suspect you, therefore you shall leave my house.”
Gilbert was far from expecting this peroration. To be turned out? He clenched his hands tightly, and a flash of anger, which almost made Rousseau tremble, lighted up his eyes. The flash was only momentary, however, for the thought occurred to him, that in leaving Rousseau’s house he should lose the happiness of seeing Andree every hour of the day, as well as forfeit the friendship of Rousseau; this would be to add misery to shame. His untamable pride gave way, and, clasping his hands; “Sir,” said he, “listen to me! One word, only one word!”
“I am pitiless,” said Rousseau; “men have made me by their injustice more cruel than the tiger. You are in correspondence with my enemies. Go to them. I do not prevent you. League with them, I do not oppose your doing so. Only leave my house!”
“Sir, those two young girls are not your enemies; they are Mademoiselle Andree and Nicole.”
“And who is Mademoiselle Andree?” said Rousseau, who had heard Gilbert pronounce this name twice or thrice before, and was, consequently, not entirely unacquainted with it; “come! who is Mademoiselle Andree? Speak!”
“Mademoiselle Andree, sir, is the daughter of the Baron de Taverney. Oh, pardon me, sir, for daring to say so to you, but I love her more than you ever loved Mademoiselle Galley or Madame de Warens! It is she; whom I have followed on foot to Paris, without money and without bread, until I fell down on the road exhausted with hunger and fatigue. It is she whom I went to see yesterday at St. Denis, whom I followed, unseen by her, to Muette, and from that to a street near this. It is she whom by chance I discovered this morning to be the occupant of this garden-house; and it is she for whose sake I burn to be a Turenne, a Richelieu, or a Rousseau!”
Rousseau knew the human heart; and felt assured that no one acting a part could speak with the trembling and impassioned accents of Gilbert, or accompany his words with gestures so true to nature.
“So,” said he, “this young lady is Mademoiselle Andree?”
“Yes, Monsieur Rousseau.”
“Then you know her?”
“Sir, I am the son of her nurse.”
“Then you lied just now when you said you did not know her; and if you are not a traitor, you are a liar.”
“Sir, you tear my very heart. Indeed, you would hurt me less were you to kill me on the spot.”
“Pshaw! Mere phrases! Style of Diderot and Marmontel. You are a liar, sir.”
“Well; yes, yes!” said Gilbert, “I am a liar, sir; and so much the worse for you if you do not feel for one so forced to lie. A liar! a liar! I leave you, sir, but I leave you in despair, and my misery will one day weigh heavy on your conscience.”
Rousseau stroked his chin as he looked at this young” man, in whom he found so many points of character resembling his own.
“He has either a great soul, or he is a great rogue,” said he to himself; “but if they are plotting against me, “why not hold in my hand a clew to the plot?”
Gilbert had advanced toward the door, and now, with his hand on the lock, stood waiting for the flat which was to banish or recall him.
“Enough on this subject, my son,” said Rousseau. “If you are as deeply in love as you say, so much the worse for you. But it is now late; you lost the whole of yesterday, and we have to-day thirty pages to copy. Quick, Gilbert. Be on the alert!”
Gilbert seized the philosopher’s hand, and pressed it to his lips; he would not certainly have done so much for a king’s. But before leaving the room, and while Gilbert, still deeply moved, stood leaning against the door, Rousseau again placed himself at the window to take a last look at the young girls. Andree had just thrown off her dressing-gown, and taken her gown from Nicole’s hands. She saw his pallid countenance and searching eye, and, starting back, she ordered Nicole to close the window. Nicole obeyed.
“So,” said Rousseau, “my old face frightens her; his young one would not have had the same effect. Oh, lovely youth!” added he, sighing:
“‘O gioventu primavera dell’ eta!
O primavera gioventu dell’ anno!’”
and, once more hanging up Therese’s gown on its nail, he went downstairs in a melancholy mood, followed by Gilbert, for whose youth he would, perhaps, at that moment have exchanged his renown, which then rivaled that of Voltaire, and shared with it the admiration of the world.