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

CHAPTER XI
THE ROAD TO PARIS

ON this same evening, a no less grave event set the college of Father Fortier in an uproar. Sebastian Gilbert had disappeared about six o’clock and had not been found up to midnight by the most active search.

Nobody had seen him save Aunt Angelique, who, coming from the church, where she let out the chairs, had thought to see him going up a lane. This report added to the schoolmaster’s disquiet. He knew that the youth had strange delusions, during which he believed he was following a beautiful lady; more than once when on a walk he had seen him stare at vacancy and if he plunged too deeply into the copse, he would start the best pedestrians of the class after him.

But he had never gone off in the night.

This time, he had taken the road to Haramont, and Angelique had really seen him. He was going to find Pitou. But the latter left the village by one end, to go and see Catherine, at the same time as the doctor’s son quitted it by the other.

Pitou’s door was open, for the captain was still simple in his habits. He lit the candle and waited: but he was too fretful. He found a sheet of paper, half of that on which Pitou had inscribed the name of his company of soldiers, and wrote as follows:

“My dear Pitou: I have come to tell you of a conversation I overheard between Father Fortier and the Villers Cotterets Vicar. Fortier is in connivance with the aristocratic party of Paris and says that a counter-revolutionary movement is hatching at Versailles. The cue was given when the Queen wore the black cockade and trampled the tricolor under-foot. This threat already made me uneasy about my father, who is the aristocrats’ enemy, as you know: but this time it is worse.

“The vicar has returned the priest’s visit, and as I feared for my father, I listened to their talk to hear the sequel to what I overheard by accident last time. It appears, my dear Pitou, that the people stormed Versailles and killed a great many royalists, among them Lord Valence Charny.

“Father Fortier said: ‘Speak low, not to startle little Gilbert, whose father has gone to Versailles and may be killed in the lot!’

“You understand, Pitou, that I did not wait for more, but I have stolen away and I come to have you take me back to Paris. I will not wait any longer, as you may have gone to lay snares in the woods and would not be home till to-morrow. So I proceed on my road to Paris. Have no anxiety as I know the way and besides I have two gold pieces left out of the money my father gave me, so that I can take a seat in the first conveyance I catch up with.

“P. S. – I make this rather long in order to explain my departure, and to delay me that you may return before I finish. But no, I have finished, and you have not come, so that I am off. Farewell, until we meet again! if nothing has happened to my father and he runs no danger, I will return. If not, I shall ask his leave to stay beside him. Calm Father Fortier about my absence; but do not do so until it is too late for him to overtake me. Good-bye, again!”

Knowing his friend’s economy, he put out the candle, and set off.

He went by the starlight at first till he struck through byways the main road at Vauciennes. At the branch of the Paris and Crespy roads, he had to stop as he did not know which to take. They were both alike. He sat down discouraged, partly to rest, partly to reflect, when he heard the galloping of horses from Villers Cotterets way.

He waited to ask the riders the information he wanted. Soon he saw two shadows in the gloom, one riding at a space behind the other so that he judged the foremost to be the master and the other his groom.

He walked out three steps from the roadside to accost him when the horseman clapped his hand to his holster for a pistol.

“I am not a thief, sir,” cried Sebastian, interpreting the action correctly, “but a boy whom recent events at Versailles calls thither to seek his father. I do not know which of these roads I ought to take to get to Paris – point it out, please, and you will do me a great service.”

The speaker’s stylish language and his juvenile tone did not seem unknown to the rider, who reined in his steed, albeit he seemed in haste.

“Who are you, my boy, and how comes it you are out on the highway at such an hour?” he inquired.

“I am not asking you who you are – only my road – the way for a poor boy to reach his father in distress.”

In the almost childish voice was firmness which struck the cavalier.

“My friend, we are on the road to Paris,” he replied: “I have only been there twice and do not know it very well, but I am sure this is the right one.”

Sebastian drew back a step offering his thanks. The horses had need of getting their wind and started off again not very rapidly.

“My Lord Viscount,” said the lackey to his master, “do you not recognize that youth?”

“No: though I fancied – “

“It is young Sebastian Gilbert, who is at boarding school, at Abbé Fortier’s; and who comes over to Billet’s Farm with Ange Pitou.”

“You are right, by Jove!” Turning his horse and stopping, he called out: “Is this you, Sebastian?”

“Yes, my lord,” returned the boy, who had known the horseman all the time.

“Then, come, and tell me how I find you here?”

“I did tell you – I want to learn that my father in Paris is not killed or hurt.”

“Alas, my poor boy,” said Isidore with profound sadness, “I am going to town on the like errand: only I have no doubt; one of my brothers, Valence, was slain at Versailles yesterday.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said the youth, holding out his hand to the speaker, which the latter took and squeezed.

“Well, my dear boy, since our fate is akin,” said the cavalier, “we must not separate; you must like me be eager to get to Paris.”

“Oh, dear, yes!”

“You can never reach it on foot.”

“I could do it but it would take too long; so I reckon on taking a place in a stage going my way, and get what lift I can do the journey.”

“Better than that, my boy; get up behind my man.”

Sebastian plucked his hands out of the other’s grasp.

“I thank you, my lord,” said he in such a tone that the noble understood that he had hurt the youth’s feelings by offering to mount him behind his inferior.

“Or, better still, now I think of it,” he went on, “take his place. He can come on afterwards. He can learn where I am by asking at the Tuileries Palace.”

“I thank you again, my lord,” replied the adolescent, in a milder voice, for he had comprehended the delicacy of the offer: “I do not wish to deprive you of his services.”

It was hard to come to an arrangement now that the terms of peace were laid down.

“Better again, my dear Sebastian. Get up behind me. Dawn is peeping: at ten we shall be at Dammartin, half way; there we will leave the two horses, which would not carry us much farther, under charge of Baptistin, and we will take the post-chaise to Paris. I intended to do this so that you do not lead to any change in my arrangements.”

“If this be true, then, I accept,” said the young man, hesitating but dying to go.

“Down with you, Baptistin, and help Master Sebastian to mount.”

“Thanks, but it is useless,” said the youth leaping up behind the gentleman as light as a schoolboy.

The three on the two horses started off at the gallop, and disappeared over the ridge.

CHAPTER XII
THE SPIRIT MATERIALIZED

AT five next afternoon, Viscount Charny and Sebastian reached the Tuileries Palace gates. The name of his brother passed Isidore and his companion into the middle courtyard.

Young Gilbert had wanted to go to the house in Honore Street where his father dwelt, but the other had pointed out that as he was honorary physician to the Royal Household, he might be at the palace, where the latest news of him could be had.

While an usher made inquiries, Sebastian sat on a sofa and Isidore walked up and down the sitting-room.

In ten minutes the man returned: Count Charny was with the Queen; Dr. Gilbert had had nothing happen to him; he was supposed to be with the King, as a doctor was with his Majesty. If it were so, he would be informed on coming out that a person was waiting to see him.

Isidore was much affected in parting with him as his joy at recovering his father made the loss of his brother more painful.

At this the door opened for a servant to call: “The Viscount of Charny is asked for in the Queen’s apartments.”

“You will wait for me,” said Isidore; “unless your father comes, promise me, Gilbert, for I am answerable for you to the doctor.”

“Yes, and receive my thanks in the meantime,” rejoined Sebastian, resuming his place on the sofa as the Viscount left the room with the domestic.

Easy about his father’s fate, and himself, certain that the good intent would earn his forgiveness for the journey, he went back in memory to Father Fortier, and on Pitou, and reflected on the trouble which his flight and his note would cause them severally.

And naturally, by the mechanism of ideas, he thought of the woods around Pitou’s home, where he had so often pursued the ghost in his reverie. The White Lady seen so oft in visions, and once only in reality, he believed in Satory Wood, appearing and flitting away in a magnificent carriage drawn by a galloping pair.

He recalled the profound emotion this sight had given him and half plunged in dreams anew, he murmured:

“My mother?”

At this juncture, a door in the wall over against him opened. A woman appeared. This appearance was so much in harmony with what happened in his fancy, that he started to see his ghost take substance. In this woman was the vision and the reality – the lady seen at Satory.

He sprang up as though a spring had acted under his feet.

His lips tightened on one another, his eyes expanded, and the pupils dilated. His heaving breast in vain endeavored to form a sound.

Majestic, haughty and disdainful, the lady passed him without any heed. Calm as she was externally, yet her pale countenance, frowning brow and whistling respiration, betrayed that she was in great nervous irritation.

She crossed the room diagonally, opened another door, and walked into a corridor.

Sebastian comprehended that she was escaping him, if he did not hasten. He still looked as if apprehensive that it was a ghost, but then darted after her, before the skirt of her silken robe had disappeared round the turning of the lobby.

Hearing steps behind her, she walked more briskly as if fearing pursuit.

He quickened his gait as much as he could, fearing as the corridor was dark that he might miss her. This caused her to accelerate her pace also, but she looked round.

He uttered a cry of joy for it was clearly the vision.

Seeing but a boy with extended arms and understanding nothing why she should be chased, the lady hurried down a flight of stairs. But she had barely descended to one landing than Sebastian arrived at the end of the passage where he called out:

“Lady, oh, lady!”

This voice produced a strange sensation throughout the hearer; she seemed struck in the heart by a pain which was half delight, and from the heart a shudder sent by the blood through all her veins.

Nevertheless, as all was a puzzle to her; she doubled her speed, and the course resembled a flight.

They reached the foot of the stairs at the same time.

It was the courtyard into which the lady sped. A carriage was waiting for her, for a servant was holding the door open. She stepped in swiftly and took her seat.

Before the door could be closed, Sebastian glided in between it and the footman, and seizing the hem of her dress, kissed with frenzy and cried:

“Oh, lady!”

Looking at the pretty boy who had frightened her at first, she said in a sweeter voice than she usually spoke, though it was yet shaken with fear and emotion:

“Well, my little friend, why are you running after me? why do you call me? what do you want?”

“I want to see you, and kiss you,” replied the child. “I want to call you ‘Mother,'” he added in so low a voice that only she could hear him.

She uttered a scream, embraced him, and approaching him as by a sudden revelation, fastened her ardent lips on his brow. Then, as though she dreaded someone coming to snatch away this child whom she had found, she drew him entirely into the vehicle, pushed him to its other side, shut the door with her own hand, and lowering the glass to order: “Drive to No. 9 Coq-Heron Street, the first carriage-doorway from Plastriere Street,” she shut the window instantly.

Turning to the boy she asked his name.

“Sebastian? come, Sebastian, come here, on my heart.”

She threw herself back as if going to swoon, muttering: “What new sensation is this? can it be what is called happiness?”

The journey was one long kiss of mother and son.

She had found this son by a miracle, whom the father had torn from her in a terrible night of anguish and dishonor; he had disappeared with no trace but the abductor’s tracks in the snow; this child had been detested until she heard its first wail, whereupon she had loved him; this child had been prayed for, called for, begged for. Her brother had uselessly hunted for him over land and ocean. For fifteen years she had yearned for him, and despaired to behold him again; she had begun to think no more of him but as a cherished spirit. Here he was, running and crying after her, seeking her, in his turn, calling her “Mother!”

He was pillowed on her heart, pressing on her bosom, loving her filially although he had never seen her, as she loved him with maternal affection. Her pure lips recovered all the joys of a lost life in this first kiss given her son.

Above the head of mankind is Something else than the void in which the spheres revolve: in life there is Another Thing than chance and fatality.

After fourteen years she was taken back to the house where he was born, this offspring of the union of the mesmerist Gilbert and the daughter of the House of Taverney, his victim. There he had drawn the first breath of life and thence his father had stolen him.

This little residence, bought by the late Baron Taverney, served as lodging for his son when he came to town, which was rarely, and for Andrea, when she slept in town.

After her conflict with the Queen, unable to bear meeting the woman who loved her husband, Andrea had made up her mind to go away from the rival, who visited on her retaliation for all her griefs, and whom the woes of the Queen, great though they were, always remained beneath the sufferings of the loving woman.

All concurred then in making this evening a happy one for the ex-Queen’s maid of honor. Nothing should trouble her. Instead of a room in a palace where the walls are all ears and eyes, she was harboring her child in her own little, secluded house.

As soon as she was closeted with Sebastian in her boudoir, she drew him to a lounge, on which were concentrated the lights from both candles and fire.

“Oh, my boy, is it really you?” she exclaimed with a joy which still quivered with lingering doubt.

“Mother!” ejaculated Sebastian with an outburst of the heart, flowing like refreshing dews on Andrea’s burning heart and enfevered veins.

“And the meeting to be here,” said she, looking round with terror towards the room whence he had been stolen.

“What do you mean by ‘Here?'”

“Fifteen years ago, my boy, you were born in this room, and I bless the mercy of the Almighty that you are miraculously restored to me.”

“Yes, miraculously indeed,” said the youth, “for if I had not feared for my father – “

Andrea closed her eyes and leaned back, so sharp was the pang shooting through her.

“If I had not set out alone in the night, I should not have been perplexed about the road: and then I should not have been recognized by Lord Isidore Charny, who offered his help and conducted me to the Tuileries – “

Her eyes re-opened, her heart expanded and her glance thanked heaven: for it increased the miracle that Sebastian should be led to her by her husband’s brother.

“I should not have seen you passing through the palace and not following you might never have called you ‘Mother!’ the word so sweet and tender to utter.”

Recalled to her bliss, she hugged him again and said:

“Yes, you are right, my boy; it is most sweet: but there is perchance another one more sweet and tender; ‘My son!’ which I say to you as I press you to my heart. But in short,” she suddenly said, “it is impossible that all should remain mysterious around us. You have explained how you come here, but not how you recognized me and ran after me, calling me your mother.”

“How can I tell? I do not myself know,” replied Sebastian, looking at her with love unspeakable. “You speak of mysteries? all is mysterious about you and me. List to me, and I will tell you what seems a prodigy.”

Andrea bent nearer.

“It is ten years since I knew you. You do not understand. I have dreams which my father calls hallucinations.”

At the reminder of Gilbert, passing like a steel point from the boyish lips, Andrea started.

“I have seen you twenty times, mother. In the village, while playing with the other schoolboys, I have followed you as you flitted through the woods and pursued you with useless calls till you faded away. Crushed by fatigue I would drop on the spot, as if your presence alone had sustained me.”

This kind of second existence, this living dream, too much resembled what the medium herself experienced for her not to understand him.

“Poor darling,” she said as she pressed him more closely, “it was vainly that hate strove to part us. Heaven was bringing us together without my suspecting it. Less happy than you, I saw my dear child neither in dream nor reality. Still, when I passed through that Green Saloon I felt a shiver; when I heard your footsteps behind mine, giddiness thrilled my heart and brain; when you called me ‘Lady’ I all but stopped; when you called me ‘Mother!’ I nearly swooned; when I embraced you, I believed.”

“My mother,” repeated Sebastian, as if to console her for not having heard the welcome title for so long.

“Yes, your mother,” said the countess, with a transport of love impossible to describe.

“Now that we have found each other,” said the youth, “and as you are contented and happy at our union, we are not going to part any more, tell me?”

She shuddered: she was enjoying the present to the exclusion of the past and totally closing her eyes on the future.

“How I should bless you, my poor boy, if you could accomplish this miracle!” she sighingly murmured.

“Let me manage it; I will do it. I do not know the causes separating you from my father,” – Andrea turned pale – “but they will be effaced by my tears and entreaties, however serious they may be.”

“Never,” returned the countess, shaking her head.

“I tell you that my father adores you,” said Sebastian, who believed that the woman was in the wrong from the way his father had forbidden him ever to mention her name.

Her hands holding the speaker’s relaxed but he did not notice this, as he continued:

“I will prepare him to greet you; I will tell him all the happiness you give me; one of these days, I will take you by the hand and lead you to him, saying: ‘Here she is, father – look, how handsome she is!'”

Repulsing Sebastian, she sprang up.

“Never,” repeated she, while he stared with astounded eyes for she was so white as to alarm him. This time her accent expressed a threat rather than fright.

She recoiled on the lounge; in that face he had seen the hard lines which Raphael gives to irritated angels.

“Why do you refuse to receive my father?” he demanded, in a sullen voice.

At these words, the lightning burst as at the contact of two clouds.

“Why? do you ask me why? well, never shall you know.”

“Still, I ask why,” said Sebastian, with firmness.

“Because, then,” said Andrea, incapable of self-restraint under the sting of the serpent gnawing at her heart, “because your father is an infamous villain!”

He bounded up from the divan and stood before her.

“Do you say that of my father,” he cried, “of Dr. Gilbert, who brought me up and educated me, the only friend I ever knew? I am making a mistake – you are no mother of mine!”

She stopped him darting towards the door.

“Stay,” she said, “you cannot know, ought not understand, may not judge.”

“No; but I can feel, and I feel that I love you no more.”

She screamed with pain.

Simultaneously, a diversion was given to the emotion overwhelming her by the sound of a carriage coming up to the street doorway. Such a shudder ran over her that he thrilled in sympathy.

“Wait, and be silent,” she said so that he was subjugated.

“Who am I to announce?” she heard the old footman demand in the ante-room.

“The Count of Charny; and inquire if my lady will do me the honor to receive me?”

“Into this room, child,” said Andrea, “he must not see you – he must not know that you exist!”

She pushed the frightened youth into the adjoining apartment.

“Remain here till he shall have gone, when I will relate to – No, nothing of that can be said? I will so love you that you will not doubt that I am your own loving mother.”

His only reply was a moan.

At this moment the door opened and the servant, cap in hand, acquitted himself of the errand entrusted to him.

“Show in the Count of Charny,” she said in the firmest voice she could find.

As the old man retired, the nobleman appeared on the sill.