The Return.
WHILE THE countless catastrophes we have mentioned were rapidly succeeding each other, M. de Taverney escaped all these dangers as if by a miracle.
Unable to oppose any physical resistance to the devouring force which swept away everything in its passage, but at the same time calm and collected, he had succeeded in maintaining his position in the center of a group which was rolling onward toward the Rue de la Madeleine. This group, crushed against the parapet walls of the place, ground against the angles of the Garde-Meuble, had left a long trail of wounded and dead in its path; but, decimated as it was, it had yet succeeded in conducting the remnant of its number to a place of safety. When this was accomplished, the handful of men and women who had been left dispersed themselves over the boulevards with cries of joy, and M. de Taverney found himself, like his companions, completely out of danger.
What we are about to say would be difficult to believe, had we not already so frankly sketched the character of the baron. During the whole of this fearful passage, M. de Taverney — may God forgive him! — had absolutely thought only of himself. Besides that he, was not of a very affectionate disposition, he was a man of action; and, in the great crises of life, such characters always put the adage of Caesar’s, “age quod agis,” in practice. We shall not say, therefore, that M. de Taverney was utterly selfish, we shall merely admit that he was absent. But once upon the pavement of the boulevards, once more master of his actions, sensible of having escaped from death to life, satisfied, in short, of his safety, the baron gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, followed by a cry — feeble and wailing — a cry of grief.
“My daughter!” said he, “my daughter!” and he remained motionless, his hands fell by his side, his eyes were fixed and glassy, while he searched his memory for all the particulars of their separation.
“Pour dear man!” murmured some compassionate women.
A group had collected around the baron, ready to pity, but above all to question. But M. de Taverney had no popular instincts; he felt ill at ease in the center of this compassionate group, and making a successful effort, he broke through them, and, we say it to his praise, made a few steps toward the place.
But these few steps were the unreflecting movement of paternal love, which is never entirely extinguished in the heart of man. Reason immediately came to the baron’s aid and arrested his steps.
We will follow, with the reader’s permission, the course of his reasoning. First, the impossibility of returning to the Place Louis XV. occurred to him. In it there was only confusion and death, and the crowds which were still rushing from it would have rendered any attempt to pass through them as futile as for the swimmer to seek to ascend the fall of the Rhine at Schaffhausen. Besides, even if a Divine arm enabled him to reach the place, how could he hope to find one woman among a hundred thousand women? And why should he expose himself again, and fruitlessly, to a death from which he had so miraculously escaped?
Then came hope, that light which ever gilds the clouds of the darkest night. Was not Andree near Philip, resting on his arm, protected by his manly strength and his brother’s heart?
That he, the baron, a feeble and tottering old man, should have been carried away, was very natural; but that Philip, with his ardent, vigorous, hopeful nature — Philip, with his arm of iron — Philip, responsible for his sister’s safety — should be so, was impossible. Philip had struggled and must have conquered.
The baron, like all selfish men, endowed Philip with those qualities which his selfishness denied to himself, but which nevertheless he sought in others — strength, generosity, and valor. For one selfish man regards all other selfish men as rivals and enemies, who rob him of those advantages which he believes he has the right of reaping from society.
M. de Taverney, being thus reassured by the force of his own arguments, concluded that Philip had naturally saved his sister; that he had perhaps lost some time in seeking his father to save him also, but that probably, nay, certainly, he had taken the way to the Rue Coq-Heron, to conduct Andree, who must be a little alarmed by all the scene, home.
He therefore wheeled round, and descending the Rue des Capucines, he gained the Place des Conquetes, or Louis le Grand, now called the Place des Victoires.
But scarcely had the baron arrived within twenty paces of the hotel, when Nicole, placed as sentinel on the threshold, where she was chattering with some companions, exclaimed; “And Monsieur Philip? and Mademoiselle Andree? What has become of them! “For all Paris was already informed by the earliest fugitives of the catastrophe, which their terror had even exaggerated.
“Oh heavens!” cried the baron, a little agitated, “have they not returned, Nicole?”
“No, no, sir, they have not been seen.”
“They most probably have been obliged to make a detour,” replied the baron, trembling more and more in proportion as the calculations of his logic were demolished; and he remained standing in the street waiting in his turn along with Nicole, who was sobbing, and La Brie, who raised his clasped hands to heaven.
“Ah! here is M. Philip!” exclaimed Nicole, in a tone of indescribable terror; for Philip was alone.
And in the darkness of the night, Philip was seen running toward them, breathless and despairing.
“Is my sister here?” cried he, while yet at a distance, as soon as he could see the group assembled at the door of the hotel.
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed the baron, pale and trembling.
“Andree! Andree!” cried the young man, approaching nearer and nearer; “where is Andree?”
“We have not seen her; she is not here, Monsieur Philip. Oh, heavens! my dear young lady!” cried Nicole, bursting into tears.
“And yet you have returned?” said the baron, in a tone of anger, which must seem to the reader the more unjust, that we have already made him acquainted with the secrets of his logic.
Philip, instead of replying, approached and showed his bleeding face, and his arm, broken and hanging at his side like a withered branch.
“Alas! alas!” sighed the old man, “Andree! my poor Andree!” and he sunk back upon the stone bench beside the door.
“I will find her, living or dead!” exclaimed Philip gloomily. And he again started off with feverish activity. Without slackening his pace, he secured his left arm in the opening of his vest, for this useless limb would have fettered his movements in the crowd, and if he had had a hatchet at that moment, he would have struck it off. It was then that he met on that fatal field of the dead, Rousseau, Gilbert, and the fierce and gloomy operator who, covered with blood, seemed rather an infernal demon presiding over the massacre, than a beneficent genius appearing to succor and to help. During a great portion of the night Philip wandered over the Place Louis XV., unable to tear himself away from the walls of the Garde-Meuble, near which Gilbert had been found, and incessantly gazing at the piece of white muslin which the young man had held firmly grasped in his hand.
But when the first light of day appeared, worn-out, ready to sink among the heaps of corpses scarcely paler than himself, seized with a strange giddiness, and hoping, as his father had hoped, that Andree might have returned or been carried back to the house, Philip bent his steps once more toward the Rue Coq-Heron. While still at a distance he saw the same group he had left there, and guessing at once that Andree had not returned, he stopped. The baron, on his side, had recognized his son.
“Well?” cried he.
“What! has my sister not returned?” asked the young man.
“Alas!” cried, with one voice, the baron, Nicole, and La Brie.
“Nothing — no news — no information — no hope?”
“Nothing?”
Philip fell upon the stone bench of the hotel; the baron uttered a savage exclamation.
At this very moment a hackney-coach appeared at the end of the street; it approached slowly, and stopped in front of the hotel. A woman’s head was seen through the door, resting on her shoulders, as if she had fainted. Philip, roused by this sight, hastened toward the vehicle. The door of the coach opened, and a man alighted, bearing the senseless form of Andree in his arms.
“Dead! dead! — They bring us her corpse!” cried Philip, falling on his knees.
“Dead!” stammered the baron, “oh, sir, is she indeed dead?”
“I think not, gentlemen,” calmly replied the man who carried Andree; “Mademoiselle de Taverney, I hope, is only in a swoon.”
“Oh! the sorcerer, the sorcerer!” cried the baron.
“The Count de Balsamo?” murmured Philip.
“The same, sir, and truly happy in having recognized Mademoiselle de Taverney in this frightful melee.”
“In what part of it, sir?” asked Philip.
“Near the Garde-Meuble.”
“Yes,” said Philip. Then his expression of joy changing suddenly to one of gloomy distrust —
“You bring her back very late, count,” said he.
“Sir,” replied Balsamo, without seeming in the least surprised, “you may easily comprehend my embarrassing situation. I did not know your sister’s address, and I had no resource but to take her to the Marchioness de Sevigny’s, a friend of mine who lives near the royal stables. Then this honest fellow whom you see, and who assisted me to rescue the young lady — come hither, Courtois.” Balsamo accompanied these last words by a sign, and a man in the royal livery appeared from the coach. “Then,” continued Balsamo, “this worthy fellow, who belongs to the royal stables, recognized the young lady as having one evening driven her from Muette to your hotel. Mademoiselle Taverney owes this lucky recognition to her marvelous beauty. I made him accompany me in the coach, and I have the honor to restore Mademoiselle de Taverney to you with all the respect due to her, and less injured than you think.” And as he concluded he gave the young girl into the care of her father and Nicole.
For the first time, the baron felt a tear trembling on his eyelids, and though, no doubt, inwardly surprised at this mark of feeling, he permitted it to roll unheeded down his wrinkled cheeks. Philip held out the only hand he had at liberty to Balsamo.
“Sir,” he said, “you know my name and my address. Give me an opportunity of showing my gratitude for the service you have rendered us.”
“I have only fulfilled a duty,” replied Balsamo. “Do I not owe you hospitality?” And bowing low, he made a few steps to retire, without replying to the baron’s invitation to enter. But returning:
“Excuse me,” said he, “but I omitted to give you the exact address of the Marchioness de Sevigny. She lives in the Rue St. Honore, near the Fueillants. I thought it necessary to give you this information, in case Mademoiselle de Taverney should think proper to call on her.”
There was in this precision of details, in this accumulation of proofs, a delicacy which touched Philip deeply, and affected even the baron.
“Sir,” said the baron, “my daughter owes her life to you.”
“I know it, sir, and I feel proud and happy at the thought,” replied Balsamo.
And this time, followed by Courtois, who refused Philip’s proffered purse, he entered the fiacre, which drove off rapidly.
Almost at the same moment, and as if Balsamo’s departure had put an end to her swoon. Andree opened her eyes, but she remained for some moments mute, bewildered, and with a wild and staring look.
“Oh, heavens!” murmured Philip; “has Providence only half restored her to us? Has her reason fled?”
Andree seemed to comprehend these words, and shook her head; but she remained silent, and as if under the influence of a sort of ecstasy. She was still standing, and one of her arms was extended in the direction of the street by which Balsamo had disappeared.
“Come, come,” said the baron; “it is time to put an end to all this. Assist your sister into the house, Philip.”
The young man supported Andree with Ins uninjured arm, Nicole sustained her on the other side; and, walking on, but after the manner of a sleeping person, she entered the hotel and gained her apartments. There, for the first time, the power of speech returned.
“Philip! My father!” said she.
“She recognizes us! she knows us again!” exclaimed Philip.
“Of course, I know you again; but oh, heavens! what has happened?”
And Andree closed her eyes, but this time not in a swoon, but in a calm and peaceful slumber.
Nicole, left alone with her young mistress, undressed her and put her in bed.
When Philip returned to his apartments, he found there a physician whom the thoughtful La Brie had run to summon, as soon as the anxiety on Andree’s account had subsided.
The doctor examined Philip’s arm. It was not broken, but only dislocated, and a skillful compression replaced the shoulder in the socket from which it had been removed. After the operation, Philip, who was still uneasy on his sister’s account, conducted the doctor to her bedside.
The doctor felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, and smiled.
“Your sister sleeps as calmly as an infant.” said he. “Let her sleep, chevalier; there is nothing else necessary to be done.”
As for the baron, sufficiently reassured on his children’s account, he had long been sound asleep.