The Aerial Trip.
GILBERT WAS now prepared for his entrance into the enemy’s camp, for thus he mentally termed M. de Taverney’s grounds, and from his window he explored the garden with the care and attention of a skillful strategist who is about to give battle, when, in this calm and motionless mansion, an incident occurred which attracted the philosopher’s attention.
A stone flew over the garden wall and struck against the angle of the house. Gilbert, who had already learned that there can be no effect without a cause, determined to discover the cause, having seen the effect.
But although he leaned out as far as possible, he could not discover the person in the street who had thrown the stone. However, he immediately comprehended that this maneuver had reference to an event which just then took place; one of the outside shutters of the ground-floor opened cautiously, and through the opening appeared Nicole’s head.
On seeing Nicole, Gilbert made a plunge back in his garret, but without losing sight of the nimble young girl. The latter, after throwing a stealthy glance at all the windows, particularly at those of the pavilion, emerged from her hiding-place and ran toward the garden, as if going to the espalier where some lace was drying in the sun. It was on the path which led toward the espalier that the stone had fallen, and neither Nicole nor Gilbert lost sight of it. Gilbert saw her kick this stone, which, for the moment, became of such great importance, before her several times, and she continued this maneuver until she readied the flower border, in which the espalier stood. Once there, Nicole raised her hands to take down the lace, let fall some of it, and, in picking it up again, seized the stone.
As yet Gilbert could understand nothing of this movement, but seeing; Nicole pick up the stone as a greedy school-boy picks up a nut, and unroll a slip of paper, which was tied round it, he at once guessed the degree of importance which was attached to this aerolite.
It was, in fact, neither more nor less than a note which Nicole had found rolled round the stone. The cunning girl quickly unfolded it, read it, and put it into her pocket, and then immediately discovered that there was no more occasion for looking at the lace; it was dry.
Meanwhile Gilbert shook his head, saying to himself, with the blind selfishness of men who entertain a bad opinion of women, that Nicole was in reality a viciously inclined person, and that he, Gilbert, had performed an act of sound and moral policy in breaking off so suddenly and so boldly with a girl who had letters thrown to her over the wall.
Nicole ran back to the house, and soon reappeared, this time holding her hand in her pocket. She drew from it a key, which Gilbert saw glitter in her hand for a moment, and then the young girl slipped this key under a little door which served to admit the gardener, and which was situated at the extremity of the wall opposite the street, and parallel to the great door which was generally used.
“Good!” said Gilbert, “I understand — a love-letter and a rendezvous. Nicole loses no time; she has already a new lover.”
And he frowned with the disappointment of a man who thinks that his loss should cause an irreparable void in the heart of the woman he abandons, and who finds this void completely filled.
“This may spoil all my projects,” he continued, seeking a factitious cause for his ill-humor. “No matter,” resumed he, after a moment’s silence, “I shall not be sorry to know the happy mortal who succeeds me in Mademoiselle Nicole’s good graces.”
But Gilbert, on certain subjects, had a very discerning judgment. He calculated that the discovery which he had made, and which Nicole was far from suspecting, would give him an advantage over her which might be of use to him, since he knew her secret, with such details as she could not deny, while she scarcely suspected his, and, even if she did, there existed no facts which could give a color to her suspicions-. During all these goings and comings, the anxiously expected night had come on.
The only thing which Gilbert now feared was the return of Rousseau, who might surprise him on the roof or on the staircase, or might come up and find his room empty. In the latter case, the anger of the philosopher of Geneva would be terrible, but Gilbert hoped to avert the blow by means of the following note, which he left upon his little table, addressed to the philosopher:
“‘MY DEAR AND ILLUSTRIOUS PROTECTOR — Do not think ill of me, if, notwithstanding your recommendations, and even against your order, I have dared to leave my apartment. I shall soon return, unless some accident, similar to that which has already happened to me, should again take place; but at the risk of a similar, or even a worse accident, I must leave my room for two hours.”
“‘I do not know what I shall say when I return,” thought Gilbert; “but at least Monsieur Rousseau will not be uneasy or angry.”’
The evening was dark. A suffocating heat prevailed, as it often does during the first warmths of spring. The sky was cloudy, and at half-past eight the most practiced eye could have distinguished nothing at the bottom of the dark gulf into which Gilbert peered.
It was then, for the first time, that the young man perceived that he breathed with difficulty, and that sudden perspirations bedewed his forehead and breast — unmistakable signs of a weak and unhinged system. Prudence counseled him not to undertake, in his present condition, an expedition for which strength and steadiness in all his members were peculiarly necessary, not only to insure success, but even for the preservation of his life; but Gilbert did not listen to what his physical instincts counseled.
His moral will spoke more loudly; and to it, as ever, the young man rowed obedience.
The moment had come. Gilbert rolled his rope several times round his neck, and commenced, with beating heart, to scale the skylight; then, firmly grasping the casement, he made the first, step in the spout toward the skylight on the right, which was, as we have said, that of the staircase, and about two fathoms distance from his own.
His feet in a groove of lead, at the utmost eight inches wide, which groove, though it was supported here and there by holdfasts of iron, yet, from the pliability of the lead, yielded to his steps; his hands resting against the tiles, which could only be a point of support for his equilibrium, but no help in case of falling, since the fingers could take no hold of them; this was Gilbert’s position during this aerial passage, which lasted two minutes, but which seemed to Gilbert to occupy two centuries.
But Gilbert determined not to be afraid; and such was the power of will in this young man that he succeeded. He recollected to have heard a rope-dancer say, that to walk safely on narrow ways one ought never to look downward, but about ten feet in advance, and never think of the abyss beneath, but as an eagle might, that is, with the conviction of being able to float over it at pleasure. Besides, Gilbert had already put these precepts in practice in several visits he had paid to Nicole — that Nicole who was now so bold that she made use of keys and doors instead of roofs and chimneys. In this manner he had often passed the sluices of the mill at Taverney, and the naked beams of the roof of an old barn. He arrived, therefore, at the goal without a shudder, and once arrived there, he glided beneath the skylight, and with a thrill of joy alighted on the staircase. But on reaching the landing-place he stopped short. Voices were heard on the lower stories; they were those of Therese and certain neighbors of hers, who were speaking of Rousseau’s genius, of the merit of his books, and of the harmony of his music.
The neighbors had read “La Nouvelle Heloise,” and confessed frankly that they found the book obscure. In reply to this criticism Madame Therese observed that they did not understand the philosophical part of this delightful book. To this the neighbors had nothing to reply, except to confess their incompetence to give an opinion on such a subject.
This edifying conversation was held from one landing-place to another; and the fire of discussion, ardent as it was, was less so than that of the stoves on winch the savory suppers of these ladies were cooking. Gilbert was listening to the arguments, therefore, and snuffing the smell of the viands, when his name, pronounced in the midst of the tumult, caused him to start rather unpleasantly. “After my supper,” said Therese,” I must go and see if that dear child does not want something in his attic.”
This dear child gave Gilbert less pleasure than the promise of the visit gave him alarm. Luckily, he remembered that Therese, when she supped alone, chatted a long time with her bottle, that the meat seemed savory, and that after supper meant — ten o’clock. It was now only a quarter to nine. Besides, it was probable that, after supper, the course of ideas in Therese’s brain would take a change, and that she would then think of anything else rather than of the dear child.
But time was slipping past, to the great vexation of Gilbert, when all at once one of the joints of the allied dames began to burn.
The cry of the alarmed cook was heard, which put an end to all conversation, for every one hurried to the theater of the catastrophe. Gilbert profited by this culinary panic among the ladies to glide down the stairs like a shadow.
Arrived at the first story, he found the leading of the window well adapted to hold his rope, and, attaching it by a slipknot, he mounted the window-sill and began rapidly to descend.
He was still suspended between the window and the ground, when a rapid step sounded in the garden beneath him. He had sufficient time, before the step readied him, to return, and holding fast by the knots he watched to see who this untimely visitor was.
It was a man, and as he proceeded from the direction of the little door, Gilbert did not doubt for an instant but that it was the happy mortal whom Nicole was expecting.
He fixed ail his attention therefore upon this second intruder, who had thus arrested him in the midst of his perilous descent. By his walk, by a glance at his profile, seen from beneath his three-cornered hat, and by the particular mode in which this hat was placed over the corner of his attentive ear, Gilbert fancied he recognized the famous Beausire, that exempt whose acquaintance Nicole had made in Taverney.
Almost immediately he saw Nicole open the door of the pavilion, hasten into the garden, leaving the door open, and light and active as a bird, direct her steps toward the greenhouse, that is to say, in the direction in which M. Beausire was already advancing.
This was most certainly not the first rendezvous which had taken place, since neither one nor other betrayed the least hesitation as to their place of meeting.
“Now I can finish my descent,” thought Gilbert; “for if Nicole has appointed this hour for meeting her lover, it must be because she is certain of being undisturbed. Andree must be alone then — oh heavens! alone.”
In fact, no noise was heard in the house, and only a faint light gleamed from the windows of the ground-floor. Gilbert alighted upon the ground without any accident, and, unwilling to cross the garden, he glided gently along the wall till he came to a clump of trees, crossed it in a stooping posture, and arrived at the door which Nicole had left open without having been discovered. There, sheltered by an immense aristolochia, which was trained over the door and hung down in large festoons, he observed that the outer apartment, which was a spacious antechamber, was, as he had guessed, perfectly empty. This antechamber communicated with the interior of the house by means of two doors, one open, the other closed; Gilbert guessed that the open one was that belonging to Nicole’s chamber. He softly entered this room, stretching out his hands before him for fear of accident, for the room was entirely without light; but, at the end of a sort of corridor, was seen a glass door whose framework was clearly designed against the light of the adjoining apartment. On the inner side of this glass door was drawn a muslin curtain.
As Gilbert advanced along the corridor, he heard a feeble voice speaking in the lighted apartment; it was Andree’s, and every drop of Gilbert’s blood rushed to his heart. Another voice replied to hers; it was Philip’s. The young man was anxiously inquiring after his sister’s health.
Gilbert, now on his guard, proceeded a few steps farther, and placed himself behind one of those truncated columns surmounted by a bust, which, at that period, formed the usual ornament of double doors. Thus concealed, he strained his eyes and ears to the utmost stretch; so happy, that his heart melted with joy; so fearful, that the same heart shrunk together till it seemed to become only a minute point in his breast.
He listened and gazed.