It was at the close of a sultry day that a sick man, wan, pale, and
almost voiceless, sat propped up by pillows, and seeming to drink in
with a sort of effort the faint breeze that entered by an open window.
A large bouquet of fresh flowers stood in a vase beside him, and on
the bed itself moss-roses and carnations were scattered, their gorgeous
tints terribly in contrast to the sickly pallor of that visage on which
death had already placed its stamp. It would have puzzled the wiliest
physiognomist to have read that strange and strongly-marked face;
for while the massive head and strong brow, the yet brilliant eye and
contracted eyebrow, denoted energy and daring, there was a faint smile,
inexpressibly sad and weary-looking, on the mouth, that seemed to
bespeak a heart that had experienced many an emotion, and ended by
finding ‘all barren.’
A long, low sigh escaped him as he lay, and in his utter weariness his
hands dropped listlessly, one falling over the side of the bed. The
watchful nurse, who, in the dress of her order as a Sister of Charity,
sat nigh, arose and leaned over to regard him.
‘No, Constance, not yet,’ said he, smiling faintly, and answering
the unspoken thought that was passing in her mind; ‘not yet; but very
near--very near indeed. What hour is it?’
‘St. Roch has just chimed half-past seven,’ replied she calmly.
‘Open the window wider; there is a little air stirring.’
‘No; the evening is very still, but it will be fresher by and by.’
‘I shall not need it,’ said he, more faintly, though with perfect calm.
‘Before midnight, Constance--before midnight it will be the same to
me if it breathed a zephyr or blew a gale: where I am going it will do
neither.’
‘Oh, Citizen, can I not persuade you to see the Père Dulaque or the Curé
of St. Roch? Your minutes are few here now, and I implore you not to
waste them.’
‘‘Tis so that I intend, my worthy friend,’ said he calmly. ‘Had either
of these excellent men you mention made the voyage I am now going, I
would speak to them willingly; but remember, Constance, it is a sea
without a chart.’
‘Say not so in the face of that blessed Book----’
‘Nay, nay, do not disturb my few moments of calm. How sweet those
flowers are! How balmy that little air that now stirs the leaves! Oh,
what a fair world it is, or rather it might be! Do not sigh so heavily,
Constance; remember what I told you yesterday; our belief is like our
loyalty--it is independent of us.’
‘Let some holy man at least speak to you.’
‘Why should I shock his honest faith? Why should he disturb my peace.
Know, woman,’ added he, more energetically, ‘that I have striven harder
to attain this same faith than ever you have done to resist a heresy.
I needed it a thousand times more than you; I ‘d have done more to gain
it--clung closer to it when won too.’
‘What did you do?’ asked she boldly.
‘I read, reflected, pondered years long--disputed, discussed, read
more--inquired wherever I hoped to meet enlightenment.’
‘You never prayed,’ said she meekly.
‘Prayed! How should I--not knowing for what, or to whom?’
An exclamation--almost a cry--escaped the woman, and her lips were seen
to move rapidly, as if in prayer. The sick man seemed to respect the
sentiment of devotion that he could not bring himself to feel, and was
silent. At last he said, in a voice of much sweetness, ‘Your patient
care and kindness are not the less dear to me that I ascribe them to a
source your humility would reject. I believe in human nature, my good
Constance, though of a verity it has given me strong lessons not to be
over-sanguine.’
‘Who has had more friends?’ began she; but he stopped her short at once
by a contemptuous gesture with his hand, while he said--
‘Men are your friends in life as they are your companions on a
journey--so long as your road lies in the same direction they will
travel with you. To bear with your infirmities, to take count of your
trials, and make allowance for your hardships; to find out what of good
there is in you, and teach you to fertilise it for yourself; to discern
the soil of your nature, expel its weeds, and still to be hopeful--this
is friendship. But it never comes from a brother man; it is a woman
alone can render it. Who is it that knocks there?’ asked he quickly.
She went to the door and speedily returned with the answer--
‘It is the same youth who was here yesterday, and refused to give his
name. He is still most urgent in his demand to see you.’
‘Does he know what he asks--that I am on the eve of a long journey, and
must needs have my thoughts engaged about the road before me?’
‘I told him you were very ill--very ill indeed; that even your dearest
friends only saw you for a few minutes at a time; but he persisted in
asserting that if you knew he was there, you would surely see him.’
‘Let his perseverance have its reward. Tell him to come in.’
The sister returned to the door, and after a whispered word to the
stranger, enforcing caution in his interview, admitted him, and pointing
to the bed where the sick man lay, she retired.
If the features and gestures of the stranger, as he moved silently
across the room, denoted the delicacy of a certain refinement, his dress
bespoke great poverty; his clothes were ragged, his shoes in tatters,
and even the red woollen cap which he had just removed from his head was
patched in several places.
The sick man motioned to him to stand where the light would fall upon
him strongly; and then, having stared steadfastly at him for several
minutes, he sighed drearily, and said, ‘What have you with me?’
‘Don’t you remember me, then, Signor Gabriel?’ asked the young man, in a
tone of deep agitation. ‘Don’t you remember Fitzgerald?’
‘The boy of the Maremma--the Garde du Corps--the favourite of
the Queen--the postilion on the flight to Va-rennes--the secret
letter-carrier to the Temple----’
‘Speak lower, Monsieur! speak lower, I beseech you,’ interposed the
other. ‘If I were betrayed, my life is not worth an hour’s purchase.’
‘And is it worth preserving in such a garb as that? I thought you had
been an apter scholar, Gerald, and that ere this you had found your way
to fortune. The Prince de Condé wrote me that you were his trustiest
agent.’
‘And it is on a mission from him that I am here this day. I have been
waiting for weeks long to see and speak with you. I knew that you were
ill, and could find no means to approach you.’
‘You come too late, my friend--too late,’ said Mirabeau, sighing:
‘Royalist, Girondin, Bourbon, or the Mountain, they are all illusions
now!’
‘The great principles of justice are not an illusion, sir; the idea of
Right is immutable and immortal!’
‘I know of nothing that does not change and die,’ said Mirabeau gravely;
then added, ‘But what would you with me?’
‘I have not courage to disturb your suffering sick-bed with cares you
can no longer feel. I had not imagined I should have found you so ill as
this.’
‘Sick unto death--if you can tell me what death means,’ said the other
with a strange smile.
‘They who sent me,’ resumed Gerald, not heeding his last remark,
‘believed you in all the vigour of health as of intellect. They have
watched with almost breathless interest the glorious conflict you have
long maintained against the men of anarchy and the guillotine; they
have recognised in you the one sole man, of all the nation, who can save
France----’
The sick man smiled sadly, and laying his wasted fingers on Gerald’s
arm, said, ‘It is not to be done!’
‘Do you mean, sir, that it is the will of the great Providence who
rules us that this mighty people should sink under the tyranny of a few
bloodthirsty wretches?’
‘I spoke not of France; I spoke of the Monarchy, said Mirabeau. ‘Look
at those flowers there: in a few hours hence they will have lost their
odour and their colour. Now, all your memory--be it ever so good--will
not replace these to your senses. Go tell your master that his hour
has struck. Monarchy was once a Faith; it will henceforth be but a
Superstition.’
‘And is a just right like this to be abandoned?’
‘No. The stranger may place them on the throne they have lost; and if
they be wise enough to repay the service with ingratitude, a few more
years of this mock rule may be eked out.’
‘Would that I had power to tell you all our plans, and you the strength
to listen to me!’ cried Gerald: ‘you would see that what they purpose is
no puny enterprise; nor what they aim at, a selfish conquest.’
‘You came to me once before--I remember the incident well; I was living
in the Avenue aux Abois when you summoned me to a meeting at St. Cloud.
The Monarchy might have been saved even then. It was late, but not too
late. I advised a ministry of such materials as the people might trust
and the court corrupt--men of low origin, violent, exacting, but venal.
Six months of such rule would have sent France back to all her ancient
traditions, and the king been more popular than ever. But they would not
hear me: they talked of walking in the high path of duty; and it has
led some to the scaffold, and the rest to exile! But what concern have
I with these things? Do you know, young man, that all your king could
promise, all the mighty people themselves could bestow upon me as I lie
here, could not equal the pleasure that moss-rose yields me, nor the
ecstasy of delight I feel when a gentle wind blows fresh upon my cheek.
Say it out, sir; say out what that supercilious smile implies,’ cried
he, his eyes lighting up with all their ancient fire. ‘Tell me at once
it was Mirabeau the voluptuary that spoke there! Ay, and I ‘ll not
gainsay you! If to exult in the perfection of the senses nature has
given me; to drink in with ecstasy what others imbibe in apathy; to feel
a godlike enjoyment where less keenly gifted temperaments had scarcely
known a pleasure--if this is to be a voluptuary, I am one.’
‘But why, with powers like yours, limit your enjoyment to mere sensual
pleasures? Why not taste the higher and purer delight of succouring
misfortune and defending the powerless?’
‘I _did_ try it,’ said the sick man, sighing. ‘I essayed to discover
the pleasures of what you would call morality. I was generous; I forgave
injuries; I pardoned ingratitude; I aided struggling misery; but the
reward was not forthcoming;--these things gave me no happiness.’
‘No happiness!’
‘None. I tried to forget I was a dupe; I did my best to believe myself
a benefactor of my species; I stopped my ear against any praises from
those I had befriended; but nothing in my heart responded to their
joy. I was not happier. Remember, boy,’ cried he, ‘that even your own
moralists only promise the recompense for virtue in another world. I
looked for smaller profits and prompter payment. The mockery of his
smile, as he spoke, seemed to wound Gerald; for, as he turned away his
head, a deep flush covered his face. ‘Forgive me,’ said the sick man; ‘I
ought to have remembered that your early training was derived from those
worthy men, the Jesuit Fathers; and if I cannot participate in your
consolations, I would not insult your convictions, Then, raising himself
on one arm, he added, with a stronger effort: ‘Your mission to me is a
failure, Fitzgerald. I cannot aid your cause: he whose trembling hand
cannot carry the glass of water to his lips can scarce replace a fallen
dynasty. I will not even deceive you by saying what, if health and
strength were mine, I might do--perhaps I do not know it myself. Go
back and tell your Prince that he and his must wait--wait like wise
physicians--till nature bring the crisis of the malady; that all they
could do now would but hurt the cause they mean to serve. When France
needs her princes, she will seek them even out of exile. Let them beware
how they destroy the prestige of their high estate by accepting equality
meanwhile. They are the priests of a religion, and can never descend to
the charges of the laity. As for you, yourself, it is well that I have
seen you; I have long desired to speak to you of your own fortunes. I
had written to Alfieri about you, and his answer--to _you_ an important
document--is in that box. You will find the key yonder on the ring.’
As Gerald rose to obey this direction, Mirabeau fell back exhausted on
the bed, a clammy sweat breaking out over his cheeks and forehead. The
cry which unconsciously escaped the youth, quickly summoned the ‘sister’
to the bedside.
‘This is death,’ said she, in the calm, solemn voice of one long inured
to such scenes. She tried to make him swallow a teaspoonful of some
restorative, but the liquid dropped over his lips, and fell upon his
chin. ‘Death--and what a death!’ muttered the sister, half to herself.
‘See--see--he is coming back to himself,’ whispered Gerald; ‘his eyes
are opening, and his lips move,’ while a faint effort of the muscles
around the mouth seemed to essay a smile.
Again she moistened his lips with the cordial, and this time he was able
to swallow some drops of it. He made a slight attempt to speak, and as
the sister bent her ear to his lips, he whispered faintly, ‘Tell him to
come back--tomorrow--to-morrow!’
She repeated the words to Gerald, who, feeling that his presence any
longer there might be hurtful, slowly and silently stepped from the
room, and descended to the street.
Late as it was, a considerable crowd was assembled before the door in
front of the house; their attitude of silent and respectful anxiety
showed the deep interest felt in the sick man’s state; and although no
name was spoken, the frequent recurrence of the words ‘he’ and ‘his’
evinced how absorbingly all thoughts were concentrated upon one
individual. Nor was it only of one class in society the crowd was
composed. Mirabeau’s admirers and followers were of every rank and
every section of politicians; and, strangely enough, men whose public
animosities had set them widely apart from each other were here seen
exchanging their last tidings of the sick-room, and alternating and
balancing their hopes and fears of his condition.
‘Jostinard calls the malady cerebral absorption,’ said one, ‘as though
intense application had produced an organic change.’
‘Lessieux holds that the disease was produced by those mercurial baths
he used to take to stimulate him on occasions of great public display,’
said another.
‘There is reason to believe it a family complaint of some sort,’ broke
in--a third; ‘the Bailli de Mirabeau sank under pure exhaustion, as if
the machine had actually worn out.’
‘_Pardie!_’ cried out a rough-looking man in a working dress; ‘it is
hard that we cannot repair him with the strong materials the useless
fellows are made of; there are full fifty in the Assembly we could give
for one like _him_.’
‘You talk of maladies,’ broke in a loud, full voice, ‘and I tell you
that the Citizen Riquetti is dying of poison--ay, start, or murmur if
you will--I repeat it, of poison. Do we not all know how his power is
feared, and his eloquence dreaded? Are we strangers to those who hate
this great and good man?’
‘Great and good he is,’ murmured another; ‘when shall we see his equal?’
‘See, here is one who has been lately with him; let us learn his news.’
This speech was uttered by a poorly-clad man, with a red cap on his
head, as Gerald was endeavouring to pierce the crowd.
‘Who is the citizen who has this privilege of speaking with Gabriel
Riquetti?’ said Cabrot, an over-dressed man, who stood the centre of a
group of talkers.
Without paying any attention to this summons, Gerald tried to pursue his
way and pass on; but several already barred the passage, and seemed to
insist, as on a right, to hear the last account of the sick man. For a
moment a haughty impulse to refuse all information thus demanded seemed
to sway Gerald; then, suddenly changing his resolution, he calmly
answered that Mirabeau appeared to him so ill as to preclude all hope of
recovery, and that his state portended but few hours of life.
‘Ask him who he himself is?’--‘Why and how he came there?’--‘What
medicine is Riquetti taking?’--‘Who administers it?’--‘Let this man give
an account of himself!’ Such, and such like, were the cries that now
resounded on all sides, and Gerald saw himself at once surrounded by a
mob, whose demands were uttered in no doubtful tone.
‘The Citizen Riquetti is one whose life is dear to the Republic,’ broke
in Cabrot; ‘all Frenchmen have a right to investigate whatever affects
that life. Some aver that he is the victim of assassination----’
‘I say, and will maintain it, broke in the man who had made this
assertion before; ‘they have given him some stuff that causes a gradual
decay.’
‘Let this man declare himself. Who are you, Citizen, and whence?’
asked another, confronting Fitzgerald. ‘What business came you here to
transact with the Citizen Riquetti?’
‘Have I asked _you_, or _you_ or _you_,’ said Gerald, turning proudly
from one to the other of those around him, ‘of your private affairs?
Have I dared to interrogate _you_ as to who you are, whence you came,
whither you go? and by what presumption do you take this liberty with
_me_?’
‘By that which a care of the public safety imposes,’ said Cabrot. ‘As
Commissary of the fifth “arrondissement,” I demand this citizen’s name.’
‘You are right to be boastful of your liberty!’ said Gerald insolently,
‘when a man cannot walk the streets, nor even visit a dying friend,
without submitting himself to the treatment of a criminal.’
‘He a friend of Gabriel Riquetti!’ burst in Cabrot. ‘Look, I beseech
you, at the appearance of the man who gives himself this title.’
‘So, then, it is to my humble dress you object. Citizens, this speaks
well for your fraternity and equality.’
‘You shall not evade a reckoning with us in this wise, said Cabrot. ‘Let
us take him to the Corps du Garde, citizens.’
‘Ay! away with him to the Corps du Garde!’ cried several together.
Gerald became suddenly struck by the rashness of his momentary loss of
temper, and quietly said, ‘I’ll not give you such trouble, citizens.
What is it you wish to hear?’
‘Your compliance comes too late,’ said Cabrot; ‘we will do the thing in
order; off with us to the Corps du Garde!’
‘I appeal to you all, why am I to be subjected to this insult?’ asked
Gerald, addressing the crowd. ‘You deliver me to the Commissary, not
for any crime or for any accusation of one; you compel me to speak about
matters purely personal--circumstances which I could have no right to
extort from any of _you_. Is this fair--is it just--is it decent?’
While he thus pleaded, the crowd was obliged to separate suddenly,
and make way for a handsome equipage, which came up at full trot, and
stopped before the door of Mirabeau’s house; and a murmur ran quickly
around, ‘It is The Gabrielle come to ask after Riquetti’; and Cabrot,
forgetting his part of public prosecutor, now approached the window of
the carriage with an almost servile affectation of courtesy. Had Gerald
been so disposed, nothing would have been easier for him than to make
his escape in the diversion caused by this new incident, so eager was
the crowd to press around and catch a glimpse of her whose gloved hand
now rested on the door of the carriage.
‘She is Riquetti’s mistress,’ cried one; ‘is not she?’
‘Not a bit of it. Riquetti declared he would have no other mistress than
France; and though she yonder changed her name to Gabrielle to flatter
him, though she has sought and followed him for more than a year, it
avails her nothing.’
‘Less than nothing I’d call it,’ said another, ‘since she pays for all
those flowers that come up from the banks of the Var--the rarest roses
and orange buds--just to please him.’
‘More than that too; she has paid all his debts--in Paris some six
hundred thousand livres--all for a man who will not look at her.’
‘“That is to be a ‘veritable’ woman!”’ said a foppish-looking man, who
was for some time endeavouring to attract the attention of the fair
occupant of the carriage.
Meanwhile, Gerald had pressed his way through the crowd, curious to
catch one look of her whose devotion seemed so romantic.
‘You see me in despair--in utter despair, Belle Gabrielle. There was no
place to be had at the Français last night, and I missed your glorious
“Phèdre.”’
Her reply was inaudible, but the other went on--
‘Of course, the effort must have cost you deeply, yet even in that
counterfeit of another’s sorrow who knows if you did not interpolate
some portion of your own grief!’
‘Is he better? Can I not see the Sister Constance,’ asked she, in a low
and liquid voice.
‘He is no better; I believe he is far worse than yesterday. There was a
young man here this moment who saw him, and whose interview, by the way,
gave rise to grave speculation. There he is yonder--a strange-looking
figure to call himself the friend of Gabriel Riquetti.’
‘Who or what is he?’ asked she eagerly.
‘It is what none of us know, though, indeed, at the moment you came up,
we had some thoughts of compelling him to declare. Need I tell you that
there is grave suspicion of foul play here; many are minded to believe
that Mirabeau has been poisoned. See how that fellow continues to stare
at you, Gabrielle. Do you know him?’
Step by step, slowly, but with eyes riveted upon the object before him,
Gerald had now approached the carriage, and stood within a few yards of
it, his eyeballs staring wildly, his lips apart, and every line of his
face betraying the most intense astonishment. Nor was Gabrielle less
moved: with her head protruded beyond the carriage-window, and her hair
pushed suddenly back by some passing impulse, she gazed wildly at the
stranger.
‘_Gherardi, Gherardi mio!_’ cried she at last. ‘Speak, and tell me if
it be you.’
‘Marietta, oh, Marietta!’ said he, with a sigh, whose heartfelt cadence
seemed eloquent in sorrow.
‘Come with me. Come home with me, and you shall hear all, said she, in
Italian, answering as it were the accents of his words.
The young man shook his head mournfully in reply, but never spoke.
‘I tell you,’ cried she, more passionately, ‘that you shall hear all. It
is more than I have said to a confessor. Come, come,’ and she flung open
the door as she spoke.
‘If you but knew how I have longed to see you, Marietta!’ whispered he,
in broken accents; ‘but not thus, oh, not thus!’
‘How, then, do you dare to judge me?’ cried she, with flashing eyes;
‘how presume to scoff at _my_ affluence, while _I_ have not dared to
reflect upon _your_ poverty? Once, and for the last time, I say, come
with me!’
Without another word he sprang to her side, the door was closed, and the
carriage drove rapidly away, ere the staring crowd could express their
amazement at what they had witnessed.