The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty

by Alexandre Dumas

  CHAPTER XIV.

  IN SEARCH OF THEIR SON.

  It was Dr. Gilbert who was closeted with the King when the usherinquired after him on the order of Isidore and the entreaty ofSebastian.

  The upright heart of Louis XVI. had appreciated the loyalty in thedoctor's. After half an hour, the latter came forth and went into theQueen's ante-chamber, where he saw Isidore.

  "I asked for you, doctor, but I have another with me who wants stillmore to see you. It will be cruel to detain you from him: so let ushasten to the Green Saloon."

  But the room was empty and such was the confusion in the palace that noservant was at hand to inform them what had become of the young man.

  "It was a person I met on the road, eager to get to Paris and cominghere on foot only for my giving him a ride."

  "Are you speaking of the peasant Pitou?"

  "No, doctor--of your son, Sebastian."

  At this, the usher who had taken Isidore away returned.

  He was ignorant of what had happened but, luckily, a second footman hadseen the singular disappearance of the boy in the carriage of a courtlady.

  They hastened to the gates where the janitor well recalled that thedirection to the coachman was "No. 9 Coq-Heron Street, first carriageentrance from Plastriere Street."

  "My sister-in-law's," exclaimed Isidore, "the countess of Charny!"

  "Fatality," muttered Gilbert. "He must have recognized her," he said ina lower tone.

  "Let us go there," suggested the young noble.

  Gilbert saw all the dangers of Andrea's son being discovered by herhusband.

  "My lord," he said, "my son is in safety in the hands of the Countess ofCharny, and as I have the honor to know her, I think I can call bymyself. Besides it is more proper that you should be on your road; for Ipresume you are going to Turin, from what I heard in the King'spresence."

  "Yes, doctor."

  "Receive my thanks for your kindness to Sebastian, and be off! When afather says he is not uneasy, you need feel no anxiety."

  Isidore held out his hand which the revolutionist shook with moreheartiness than he had for most of his class; while the noblemanreturned within the palace, he went along to the junction of the streetsCoq-Heron and Plastriere.

  Both were painful memories.

  In the latter he had lived, a poor boy, earning his bread by copyingmusic, by receiving instruction from the author Rousseau. From hiswindow he had contemplated Andrea at her own casement, under the handsof her maid, Nicole, his first sweetheart, and to that window he hadmade his way by a rope and by scaling the wall, to view more closely andsatisfy his passion for the high-born lady who had bewitched him.

  Rousseau was dead, but Andrea was rich and nobler still; he had alsoattained wealth and consideration.

  But was he any happier than when he walked out of doors to dip his crustin the waters of this public fountain?

  He could not help walking up to the door where Rousseau had lived. Itwas open on the alley which ran under the building to the yard at theback as well as up to the attic where he was lodged.

  He went up to the first floor back, where the window on the landing gavea view of the rear house where Baron Taverney had dwelt.

  No one disturbed him in his contemplation; the house had come down inthe world; no janitor; the inhabitants were poor folk who did not fearthieves.

  The garden at Taverney's house was the same as a dozen years before. Thevine still hung on the trellis which had served him as ladder in hisnight clamberings within the enclosure.

  He was unaware whether Count Charny was with his wife, but he was sobent on learning about Sebastian that he meant to risk all.

  He climbed the wall and descended on the other side. In the gardennothing obstructed him, and thus he reached the window of Andrea'sBedroom.

  In another instant, as related, the two enemies stood face to face.

  The lady's first feeling was invincible repugnance rather than profoundterror.

  For her the Americanized Gilbert, the friend of Washington andLafayette, aristocratic through study, science and genius, was still thehangdog Gilbert of her father's manor house, and the gardener's boy ofTrianon Palace.

  Gilbert no longer bore her the ardent love which had driven him to crimein his youth, but the deep and tender affection, spite of her insultsand persecutions, of a man ready to do a service at risk of his life.

  With the insight nature had given him and the justice educationimplanted, Gilbert had weighed himself: he understood that Andrea'smisfortunes arose from him, and he would never be quits with her untilhe had made her as happy as he had the reverse.

  But how could he blissfully affect her future.

  It was impossible for him yet to comprehend.

  On seeing this but to so much despair, again the prey to woe, all hisfibres of mercy were moved for so much misery.

  Instead of using his hypnotic power to subdue her, he spoke softly toher, ready to master her if she became rebellious.

  The result was that the medium felt the ethereal fluid fade away like adissolving fog, by Gilbert's permission, and she was able to speak ofher own free will.

  "What do you want, sir? how came you here?"

  "By the way I used before," replied the doctor. "Hence you can beeasy--no one will know of it. Why? because I come to claim a treasure,of no consequence to you, but precious to me, my son. I want you to tellwhat has become of my son, taken away in your carriage and broughthere."

  "How do I know? taught by you to hate his mother, he has fled."

  "His mother? are you really a mother to him?"

  "Oh, you see my grief, you have heard my cries, and looking on mydespair, you ask me if I am his mother?"

  "How then are you ignorant what has become of him?"

  "But I tell you he has fled; that I came into this room for him andfound the window open and the room vacant."

  "Where could he have gone--good God!" exclaimed Gilbert. "It is pastmidnight and he does not know the town."

  "Do you believe anything evil has befallen him?" asked she, approaching.

  "We shall hear, for it is you who shall tell me."

  And with a wave of the hand he began anew to plunge her into themesmeric sleep.

  She uttered a sigh and fell off into repose.

  "Am I to put forth all my will power or will you answer voluntarily?"asked Gilbert when she was under control.

  "Will you tell the boy again that I am not his mother?"

  "That depends. Do you love him?"

  "Ardently, with all my soul."

  "Then you are his mother as I am his father, for it is thus I love him.Loving him, you shall see him again. When did you part from the boy?"

  "About half an hour ago, when Count Charny called. I had pushed him intothis room."

  "What were his last words?"

  "That I was no more his mother: because I had told him that you were avillain."

  "Look into the poor boy's heart and see what harm you wrought."

  "Oh, God forgive me," said Andrea: "forgive me, my son."

  "Did Count Charny suspect the boy was here?"

  "No, I am sure."

  "Why did he not stay?"

  "Because he never stays long with me. Oh, wretch that I am," sheinterrupted herself, "he was returning to me after refusing thatmission--because he loves me--he loves me!"

  Gilbert began to see more clearly into this drama which his eye wasfirst to penetrate.

  "But do you love him?" he demanded.

  "I see your intention is good: you wish to make up to me for the griefyou have caused: but I refuse the boon coming from you. I hate you andwish to continue in my hatred."

  "Poor mortality," muttered the philosopher, "have you had so muchhappiness that you can dally with a certain amount offered you? so youlove him?"

  "Yes. Since first I saw him, as the Queen and I sat with him in ahackney-carriage in which we returned from Paris to Versailles onenight."

  "You know what love i
s, Andrea," queried Gilbert, mournfully.

  "I know that love has been given as a standard by which we can measurehow much sadness we can endure," replied she.

  "It is well: you are a true woman and a true mother: a rough diamond,you were shaped by the stern lapidary known as Grief. Return toSebastian."

  "Yes, I see him leaving the house with clenched hands and knit brow. Hewanders up the street--he goes up to a woman and asks her for St. HonoreStreet----"

  "My street: he was seeking for my house. Poor child! he will be thereawaiting me."

  "Hold! he has gone astray--he is in New St. Roch Street. Oh, he does notsee that vehicle coming down Sourdiere Street, but I see thehorses--Ah!"

  She drew herself up with an awful scream, maternal anguish depicted onher visage, down which rolled tears and perspiration.

  "Oh, if harm befalls him, remember that it will recoil on your head,"hissed Gilbert.

  "Ah," sighed Andrea in relief, without hearing or heeding him, "God inheaven be praised! it is the horse's breast which struck him, and he isthrown out of the rut of the wheel. There he lies, stunned, but he isnot killed. Only swooned. Hasten to help him. It is my son! They form acrowd round him: is there not a doctor or surgeon among them all?"

  "Oh, I shall run," said Gilbert.

  "Wait," said Andrea, stopping him by the arm, "they are dividing to lethelp come. It is the doct--oh, do not let that man approach him--Iloathe him--he is a vampire, he is hideous!"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, do not lose sight of Sebastian," said Gilbert,shuddering.

  "This ghoul carries him away--up the street--into the blind alley,called St. Hyacinthe: where he goes down some steps. He places him on atable where books and printed papers are heaped. He takes off his coatand rolls up his sleeve. He ties the arm with bandages from a woman asdirty and hideous as himself. He finds a lance in a case--he is going tobleed him. Oh, I cannot bear to see my son's blood flow. Run, run, andyou will find him as I say."

  "Shall I awaken you at once with recollection: or would you sleep tillthe morning and know nothing of what has happened?"

  "Awaken me at once with full memory."

  Gilbert described a double curve with his hands so that his thumbs cameupon the medium's eyelids; he breathed on her forehead and said merely:

  "Awake!"

  Instantly her eyes became animated; her limbs were supple; she looked atGilbert almost without terror, and continuing, though aroused, theimpulse in her vision, she cried:

  "Oh, run, run, and snatch the boy from the hands of that man who causesme so much fright!"