If it be matter of wonderment that at such a time as we now speak of
De Noe should have opened his heart thus freely to one he had never
met before, the simple explanation lies in the fact that periods of
“espionage” are precisely those when men make the rashest confederacies.
Wearied and worn out, as it were, by everlasting chicanery and trick,
they seize with avidity on the first occasion that presents itself to
relieve the weight of an overburdened heart. To feel a sense of trust
is sufficient to make them reveal their most secret feelings; and it was
thus that De Noe no sooner found himself alone with Gerald than he told
him the whole story of his love.
Gerald not only read his motives aright, but saw also something of
the man himself. He perceived in him a type of a class by no means
unfrequent at the time--royalists by birth and instinct, and yet so
stripped of all the prestige of their once condition, and so destitute
of hope, that they really lived on the contingency of each day, not
knowing by what stratagem the morrow was to be met, nor to what straits
future fate might subject them. Besides this, he saw how the supporters
of the ‘cause’ had gradually degenerated from the great names and nobles
of France to men of ruined hopes and blasted fortunes, whose intrigues
were conceived in the lowest places, and carried on by the meanest
associates. The more he reflected on these things, the more was he
convinced that Mirabeau was right when he said the ‘Revolution was a
fire that must burn out.’
‘And how long will the flames last,’ cried he to himself; ‘they will not
assuredly be extinguished in my time. The great convulsions of nations
will bear proportion to the vast materials they deal with. France will
not rally from this shock for half a century to come; and ere that I
shall have passed away.’
When doubt or despondency weighed upon his mind, all the crafty
reasoning of Mirabeau and all the sensual teachings of Rousseau
came freshly to his memory. They told him of a world of conflict and
struggle, but also a world of voluptuous pleasure and abandonment. They
sneered at the ideal pretexts men called loyalty and fidelity, and they
counselled the enjoyment of the present as the only true philosophy.
‘Tell me you are sure of being alone to-morrow,’ said Diderot, ‘and I
will listen to how you mean to spend it.’ like evil spirits that love
the night, these dark thoughts were sure to seek him in his hours of
gloomy depression.
There was, with all this, a sense of pique as he compared his own
position with that which Marietta had already won for herself. ‘We
started together in the race, thought he, ‘and see where she has
distanced me! That poor friendless girl is already a social influence
and a power, while I am a mere hanger-on of men, who use me in dangers
that show how little they regard me. What rare abilities must she
possess! What a marvellous insight into the human heart and all its
varied workings! How ingeniously, too, has she contrived to interweave
with her dramatic power the stranger and more mysterious workings of a
supernatural influence! How far is she the dupe of her own deceptions?’
This was a thought not easily solved, knowing her well as he did, and
knowing how often she was the slave of her own passionate impulses. ‘I
will see her to-night with my own eyes, and mayhap be able to read her
aright.’
The receptions of Madame Roland were among the ‘events’ of the day. They
were the rendezvous of all that was most advanced and extravagant in
republicanism. Thoroughly true-hearted and single-minded herself, she
was rapidly attracted to those men who declaimed against courts and
courtly vices, and sincerely believed that virtue only resided beneath
lowly roofs and among narrow fortunes. Her sincere enthusiasm--the
genuine ardour of a character that had no duplicity in it--added to
considerable personal charms, gave her a vast influence in the society
wherein she moved. She was not strictly handsome, but her features were
of extreme delicacy, and capable of expression the most refined and
captivating; but her voice was the spell which, it is said, never failed
to fascinate those who heard it.
In the management of this marvellous instrument of captivation was,
perhaps, the solitary evidence of anything like study or artifice about
her. She knew how to attune and modulate it to perfection; and even
they who pronounced her conversational powers as inferior to Madame
de Stael’s, were ready to confess that the melody and softness of her
utterance gave her an unquestionable advantage. Married to a man more
than double her age, she exercised a complete independence in all the
arrangements of her household, inviting whom she pleased, bringing
together in her salons ingredients the most dissimilar, and
representatives of classes the widest apart.
Gerald had more than once heard of these receptions, and was curious
to witness them; he wished, besides, to see some of the men whom the
popular will declared to be the great leaders of party, and whose
legislative ability was regarded as the hope of France.
‘Do not flatter yourself that you are about to be struck by any
intellectual display,’ whispered De Noe, as he led him up the stairs.
‘For the most part, you will hear nothing but violent tirades against
royalty, and coarse abuse of a society of which the speaker knows
nothing.’
The salons, which were small, were crammed with company, so that for
some time Gerald had little other occupation than to scrutinise the
appearance of the guests, and the strange extravagances of that costume
which they had come to assume distinctively.
‘Look yonder,’ whispered De Noe, ‘at the tall, dark man, like a
Spaniard, with his long hair combed back and falling on his neck. That
is Lanthenas, _l’ami de la maison_; he lives here. Were she any one
else, people would call him her lover; but “La Manon,” as they style
her, has no heart to bestow on such emotion; she is with her whole soul
in politics, and only cares for humanity when counted by millions.’
‘Who is the pert-looking, conceited fellow he is talking to?’ asked
Gerald.
‘That is Louvet, the great literary hero of the day. Seven editions of
an indecent novel, sold in as many weeks, have made him rich as well as
famous; and the author of _Faublas_ is now courted and sought after on
all sides.’
As the crowd thickened, De Noe could but just tell the names of the
more remarkable characters without time for more. There was Pelleport, a
marquis by birth, but now a spy, and libelist of the lowest class,
side by side with Condorcet, the optimist philosopher, and Brissot, the
wildest enunciator of republicanism. Carsu, with a dozen penal sentences
over his head, was talking familiarly with old Monsieur Roland himself,
a simple-hearted old egotist, vain, harmless, and conceited. Yonder,
entertaining a group of ladies by the last scandals of the day, told as
none but himself could tell them, was Gaudet, a young lawyer from Lyons,
his dress the exaggeration of all that constituted the republican
mode; while looking on, and with air at once rebuking and amused, stood
Dumont, his staid features and simple attire the modest contrast to the
other’s finery.
‘A young friend of mine, just come from Italy, Madame, said De Noe,
suddenly perceiving Madame Roland’s eyes fixed on Fitzgerald.
‘And “of us”?’ said she significantly.
‘Assuredly, Madame, or I had not dared to present him,’ said De Noe,
bowing.
‘You must not say so, sir. Do you know,’ said she, addressing Gerald,
‘that it was only last week he brought a bishop here, Monseigneur de
Blois.’
‘Ah! but be just, Madame; he had been degraded for immorality,’ broke in
De Noe, laughing.
‘You should have shared his penalty, Monsieur De Noe,’ said she, half
coldly, and moved on.
‘Come, Gerald, let me present you to some of my illustrious friends.
Whom will you know? That choleric old lady there, a dismissed court
lady, and the sworn enemy of the queen; or her daughter, the pretty
widow, playing trictrac with Fabre d‘Êglantine? Or shall I introduce you
to that dark-eyed beauty, whose foot you are not the first man that ever
admired? She is, or was, La Comtesse de Ratignolles, but calls herself
Julie Servan on her books.
‘Why don’t you answer me? What are you thinking of? Ah, parbleu! I see
well enough. It is the Gabrielle; and the tall, pale man she leans upon
is Talma. Is not that enough of homage, _mon cher_? See how they rise
to let her pass. We have been courtiers in our day, Gerald, but did you
ever see a more queenly presence than that?’
It was truly, as De Noe described, like the passage of royalty. Marietta
swept by, bowing slightly to either side, and by an easy gesture of her
hand seeming half to decline, half accept, the honours that were paid
her. Refusing with a sort of haughty indifference the seat prepared for
her at the end of the room, she moved on toward a small boudoir, and
was lost to Gerald’s view. Indeed, his attention was rapidly directed
elsewhere, as a small, dark-eyed man in the centre of the room proceeded
to entertain the company with an account of Mirabeau’s last moments. It
was the Doctor Cabanis, who had tended his sickbed with such devotional
affection, and whose real attachment had soothed the last sufferings
of his patient. If there was something in Gerald’s estimation more than
questionable in this exposure of all that might be deemed most sacred
and private, the narrative was full of little details that interested
him.
The dreadful mockery by which Mirabeau endeavoured to cheat death of his
terrors, as, dressed, perfumed, and essenced, he lay upon his last
bed, all surrounded with flowers, was told with a thrilling minuteness.
Through all the assumed calm, through all the acted philosophy,
there crept out the agonising eagerness for life, that even _his_
dissimulation could not smother. His incessant questioning as to this
symptom or that, whether it indicated good or evil; the intense anxiety
with which he scrutinised the faces around his bed, to read the thoughts
their words belied, were all related; and, strangely enough, assumed to
imply that they were the last desires of a patriot who only longed
for life to serve his country. Of those who listened, many doubted the
honesty and good faith of his character; some thought him a royalist in
disguise; some deemed him a lukewarm patriot; some even regarded him as
so destitute of principle, that his professions were good for nothing;
and yet amid all these disparaging estimates, they regarded this
deathbed, where no consolations of religion were breathed, where no
murmur of prayer was heard, nor one supplication for mercy raised, as
a glorious triumph! It was to _their_ eyes the dawning of that
transcendent brightness which was to succeed the long night of
priestcraft and superstition; and however ready to cavil at his
doctrines or dispute his theories, there was but one voice--to honour
_him_ who with his last breath had defied the Church.
‘_Ah, que c’est beau!’ ‘Ah que c’est magnifique!_’ were the mutterings
on every side. One only circumstance detracted in any way from the
effect of these revelations; it was, that he who made them momentarily
gave vent to his feelings and shed tears. This homage to human frailty
jarred upon the classic instincts of the assembly. It was an ignoble
weakness, unworthy of such a theme; and in a tone of stern rebuke, Fabre
d’Églantine interrupted the speaker, and said--
‘Your grief is unbecoming, sir; such sorrow insults the memory you
mean to hallow! If you would learn how the death of Mirabeau should be
accepted, go yonder, and you will see.’ He pointed as he spoke toward
the boudoir, and thither with a common impulse the crowd now moved.
A warning gesture from Talma, as he stood in the doorway, and with
uplifted hand motioned silence, arrested their steps, and, awestruck by
the imposing attitude of one whose slightest gesture was eloquent, they
halted. Mixed in the throng, Gerald could barely catch a glimpse of the
scene beyond. He could, however, perceive that Marietta was lying in a
sort of trance; a crown of ‘immortelles’ that she had been weaving had
fallen from her hand, and lay at her feet; her hair, too, had burst
its bands, and fell in large waving masses over her neck and arms; the
faintest trace of colour marked her cheeks, and sufficed to show that
she had not fainted.
Lanthenas laid his finger softly on her wrist, and in a cautious whisper
said, ‘The pulse is intermittent, the “accès” will be brief.’
‘We were talking of the death of Cæsar,’ said Talma, ‘when the attack
came on. She would not have it that Brutus was a patriot. She tried to
show that in such natures--stern, cold, and self-denying--patriotism can
no more take root than love. I asked her then if Gabriel Riquetti were
such a man----’
‘Hush! she is about to speak,’ broke in Madame Roland.
A few soft murmuring sounds escaped Marietta’s lips, and her fingers
moved convulsively.
‘What is it she says,’ cried Louvet, ‘of crime and poison?’
‘Hush! listen.’
‘Examine Comps,’ muttered she; ‘he knows all.’
‘It is Mirabeau’s secretary she speaks of,’ said Louvet, ‘he committed
suicide last night.’
‘No; he is not dead, though his wound may prove fatal,’ said Cabanis.
‘He will live,’ said Marietta solemnly, and then seemed to sink into a
deep stupor.
‘Yes, trust me, I will tell him,’ cried she suddenly, with a voice as
assured and an accent as firm as though awake. ‘Come here and let me
whisper it.’
One after another bent down beside the couch, but she repulsed them
sharply, and with a half-angry gesture motioned them away.
Madame Roland knelt down and took her hand, but with the same abrupt
movement the other pushed her away, muttering, ‘No, not you--not you.’
Again and again did they who knew her best present themselves, but with
the same ill success. Some she drove rudely back, to others she made a
sign to retire.
‘Mayhap the person is not present that you wish for,’ said Madame Roland
softly.
‘He is here,’ said she gently.
Name after name of those around did Madame Roland whisper, but all
without avail. At last, as Langrés presented himself, Marietta turned
with a sort of aversion from him and said--
‘I am in search of a prince, and you bring me a butcher.’
This insulting speech was not heard without a smile by some who knew
this man’s origin, and detested the coarse ruffianism of his address.
‘_Parbleau_, Madame! if you want princes you must go and seek them at
the Français,’ said Langrés angrily, as he dropped back into the crowd.
Meanwhile, impelled by a strong desire to test the reality of her
vision, Gerald made his way through the throng, and dropping on one
knee, took her hand in his own.
A start and a faint exclamation--half surprise, half joy--broke from her
as she felt his touch. She passed her hand over his face, and through
his long hair, and then bending down kissed him on the forehead. She
whispered a few words rapidly in his ear, and sank back exhausted.
‘She has fainted! Bring water quickly,’ cried Lanthenas.
For a few minutes every attention was directed toward her; and it was
only as she showed signs of recovery, some one asked--
‘What has become of De Noe and his friend?’
They were gone.