TAVERNEY AND HIS DAUGHTER.
Though forewarned by Gilbert of Baron Taverney's poverty, Baron Balsamo
was not the less astonished by the meanness of the dwelling which the
youth had dubbed the Castle. On the paltry threshold stood the master
in a dressing gown and holding a candle.
Taverney was a little, old gentleman of five-and-sixty, with bright
eye and high but retreating forehead. His wretched wig had lost by
burning at the candles what the rats had spared of its curls. In his
hands was held a dubiously white napkin, which proved that he had been
disturbed at table. His spiteful face had a likeness to Voltaire's,
and was divided between politeness to the guest and distaste to being
disturbed. In the flickering light he looked ugly.
"Who was it pointed out my house as a shelter?" queried the baron,
holding up the light to spy the pilot to whom he was eager to show his
gratitude, of course.
"The youth bore the name of Gilbert, I believe."
"Ugh! I might have guessed that. I doubted, though, he was good enough
for that. Gilbert, the idler, the philosopher!"
This flow of epithets, emphasized threateningly, showed the visitor
that little sympathy existed between the lord and his vassal.
"Be pleased to come in," said the baron, after a short silence more
expressive than his speech.
"Allow me to see to my coach, which contains valuable property,"
returned the foreign nobleman.
"Labrie," said Lord Taverney, "put my lord's carriage under the shed,
where it will be less uncovered than in the open yard, for some
shingles stick to the roof. As for the horses, that is different, for I
cannot answer for their supper; still, as they are not yours, but the
post's, I daresay it makes no odds."
"Believe me, I shall be ever grateful to your lordship----"
"Oh, do not deceive yourself," said the baron, holding up the candle
again to light Labrie executing the work with the aid of the foreign
noble; "Taverney is a poor place and a sad one."
When the vehicle was under cover, after a fashion, the guest slipped a
gold coin into the servant's hand. He thought it a silver piece, and
thanked heaven for the boon.
"Lord forbid I should think the ill of your house that you speak," said
Balsamo, returning and bowing as the baron began leading him through a
broad, damp antechamber, grumbling:
"Nay, nay, I know what I am talking about; my means are limited. Were
you French--though your accent is German, in spite of your Italian
title--but never mind--you would be reminded of the rich Taverney."
"Philosophy," muttered Balsamo, for he had expected the speaker would
sigh.
The master opened the dining-room door.
"Labrie, serve us as if you were a hundred men in one. I have no other
lackey, and he is bad. But I cannot afford another. This dolt has lived
with me nigh twenty years without taking a penny of wages, and he is
worth it. You will see he is stupid."
"Heartless," Balsamo continued his studies; "unless he is putting it
on."
The dining-room was the large main room of a farmhouse which had been
converted into the manor. It was so plainly furnished as to seem empty.
A small, round table was placed in the midst, on which reeked one dish,
a stew of game and cabbage. The wine was in a stone jar; the battered,
worn and tarnished plate was composed of three plates, a goblet and a
salt dish; the last, of great weight and exquisite work, seemed a jewel
of price amid the rubbish.
"Ah, you let your gaze linger on my salt dish?" said the host. "You
have good taste to admire it. You notice the sole object presentable
here. No, I have another gem, my daughter----"
"Mademoiselle Andrea?"
"Yes," said Taverney, astonished at the name being known; "I shall
present you. Come, Andrea, my child, and don't be alarmed."
"I am not, father," said a sonorous but melodious voice as a maiden
appeared, who seemed a lovely pagan statue animated.
Though of the utmost plainness, her dress was so tasteful and suitable
that a complete outfit from a royal wardrobe would have appeared less
rich and elegant.
"You are right," he whispered to his host, "she is a precious beauty."
"Do not pay my poor girl too many compliments," said the old Frenchman
carelessly, "for she comes from the nunnery school and may credit
them. Not that I fear that she will be a coquette," he continued; "just
the other way, for the dear girl does not think enough of herself,
and I am a good father, who tries to make her know that coquetry is a
woman's first power."
Andrea cast down her eyes and blushed; whatever her endeavor she could
not but overhear this singular theory.
"Was that told to the lady at convent, and is that a rule in religious
education?" queried the foreigner, laughing.
"My lord, I have my own ideas, as you may have noticed. I do
not imitate those fathers who bid a daughter play the prude
and be inflexible and obtuse; go mad about honor, delicacy and
disinterestedness. Fools! they are like seconds who lead their champion
into the lists with all the armor removed and pit him against a man
armed at all points. No, my daughter Andrea will not be that sort,
though reared in a rural den at Taverney."
Though agreeing with the master about his place, the baron deemed it
duty to suggest a polite reproof.
"That is all very well, but I know Taverney; still, be that as it
may, and far though we are from the sunshine of Versailles Palace,
my daughter is going to enter the society where I once flourished.
She will enter with a complete arsenal of weapons forged in my
experience and recollections. But I fear, my lord, that the convent
has blunted them. Just my luck! my daughter is the only pupil who took
the instructions as in earnest and is following the Gospel. Am I not
ill-fated?"
"The young lady is an angel," returned Balsamo, "and really I am not
surprised at what I hear."
Andrea nodded her thanks, and they sat down at table.
"Eat away, if hungry. That is a beastly mess which Labrie has hashed
up."
"Call you partridges so? You slander your feast. Game-birds in May?
Shot on your preserves?"
"Mine? My good father left me some, but I got rid of them long ago. I
have not a yard of land. That lazybones Gilbert, only good for mooning
about, stole a gun somewhere and done a bit of poaching. He will go to
jail for it, and a good riddance. But Andrea likes game, and so far, I
forgive the boy."
Balsamo contemplated the lovely face without perceiving a twinge,
wrinkle or color, as she helped them to the dish, cooked by Labrie,
furnished by Gilbert, and maligned by the baron.
"Are you admiring the salt dish again, baron?"
"No, the arm of your daughter."
"Capital! the reply is worthy the gallant Richelieu. That piece of
plate was ordered of Goldsmith Lucas by the Regent of Orleans.
Subject: the Amours of the Bacchantes and Satyrs--rather free."
More than free, obscene--but Balsamo admired the calm unconcern of
Andrea, not blenching as she presented the plate.
"Do eat," said the host; "do not fancy that another dish is coming, for
you will be dreadfully disappointed."
"Excuse me, father," interrupted the girl with habitual coolness, "but
if Nicole has understood me, she will have made a cake of which I told
her the recipe."
"You gave Nicole the recipe of a cake? Your waiting maid does the
cooking now, eh? The next thing will be your doing it yourself. Do
you find duchesses and countesses playing the kitchen-wench? On the
contrary, the king makes omelets for them. Gracious! that I have lived
to see women-cooks under my roof. Pray excuse my daughter, baron."
"We must eat, father," rebuked Andrea tranquilly. "Dish up, Legay!" she
called out, and the girl brought in a pancake of appetizing smell.
"I know one who won't touch the stuff," cried Taverney, furiously
dashing his plate to pieces.
"But the gentleman, perhaps, will," said the lady coldly. "By the way,
father, that leaves only seventeen pieces in that set, which comes to
me from my mother."
The guest's spirit of observation found plenty of food in this
corner of life in the country. The salt dish alone revealed a facet
of Taverney's character or rather all its sides. From curiosity or
otherwise, he stared at Andrea with such perseverance that she tried to
frown him down; but finally she gave way and yielded to his mesmeric
influence and command.
Meanwhile the baron was storming, grumbling, snarling and nipping the
arm of Labrie, who happened to get into his way. He would have done the
same to Nicole's when the baron's gaze fell on her hands.
"Just look at what pretty fingers this lass has," he exclaimed. "They
would be supremely pretty only for her kitchen work having made corns
at the tips. That is right; perk up, my girl! I can tell you, my
dear guest, that Nicole Legay is not a prude like her mistress and
compliments do not frighten her."
Watching the baron's daughter, Balsamo noticed the highest disdain
on her beauteous face. He harmonized his features with hers and
this pleased her, spite of herself, for she looked at him with less
harshness, or, better, with less disquiet.
"This girl, only think," continued the poor noble, chucking the girl's
chin with the back of his hand, "was at the nunnery with my daughter
and picked up as much schooling. She does not leave her mistress a
moment. This devotion would rejoice the philosophers, who grant souls
to her class."
"Father, Nicole stays with me because I order her to do so," observed
Andrea, discontented.
By the curl of the servant's lip, Balsamo saw that she was not
insensible to the humiliations from her proud superior. But the
expression flitted; and to hide a tear, perhaps, the girl looked aside
to a window on the yard. Everything interested the visitor, and he
perceived a man's face at the panes.
Each in this curious abode had a secret, he thought; "I hope not to be
an hour here without learning Andrea's. Already I know her father's,
and I guess Nicole's."
Taverney perceived his short absence of mind.
"What! are you dreaming?" he questioned. "We are all at it, here; but
you might have waited for bedtime. Reverie is a catching complaint. My
daughter broods; Nicole is wool-gathering; and I get puzzling about
that dawdler who killed these birds--and dreams when he kills them.
Gilbert is a philosopher, like Labrie. I hope you are not friendly with
them? I forewarn you that philosophers do not go down with me."
"They are neither friends nor foes to me," replied the visitor; "I do
not have anything to do with them."
"Very good. Zounds, they are scoundrelly vermin, more venomous than
ugly. They will ruin the monarchy with their maxims, like 'People can
hardly be virtuous under a monarchy;' or, 'Genuine monarchy is an
institution devised to corrupt popular manners, and make slaves;' or
yet, 'Royal authority may come by the grace of God, but so do plagues
and miseries of mankind.' Pretty flummery, all this! What good would
a virtuous people be, I beg? Things are going to the bad, since his
Majesty spoke to Voltaire and read Diderot's book."
At this Balsamo fancied again to spy the pale face at the window, but
it vanished as soon as he fixed his eyes upon it.
"Is your daughter a philosopher?" he asked, smiling.
"I do not know what philosophy is; I only know that I like serious
matters," was Andrea's reply.
"The most serious thing is to live; stick to that," said her father.
"But the young lady cannot hate life," said the stranger.
"All depends," she said.
"Another stupid saying," interrupted Taverney. "That is just the
nonsense my son talks. I have the misfortune to have a son. The
Viscount of Taverney is cornet in the dauphin's horse-guards--a nice
boy; another philosopher! The other day he talked to me about doing
away with negro slavery. 'What are we to do for sugar?' I retorted,
for I like my coffee heavily sweetened, as does Louis XV. 'We must
do without sugar to benefit a suffering race.' 'Suffering monkeys!'
I returned, 'and that is paying them a compliment.' Whereupon he
asserted that all men were brothers! Madness must be in the air. I,
brother of a blackamoor!"
"This is going too far," observed Balsamo.
"Of course. I told you I was in luck. My children are--one an angel,
the other an apostle. Drink, though my wine is detestable."
"I think it exquisite," said the guest, watching Andrea.
"Then you are a philosopher! In my time we learnt pleasant things; we
played cards, fought duels, though against the law; and wasted our
time on duchesses and money on opera dancers. That is my story in a
nutshell. Taverney went wholly into the opera-house; which is all I
sorrow for, since a poor noble is nothing of a man. I look aged, do
I not? Only because I am impoverished and dwell in a kennel, with a
tattered wig, and gothic coat; but my friend the marshal duke, with
his house in town and two hundred thousand a year--he is young, in
his new clothes and brushed up perukes--he is still alert, brisk and
pleasure-seeking, though ten years my senior, my dear sir, ten years."
"I am astonished that, with powerful friends like the Duke of
Richelieu, you quitted the court."
"Only a temporary retreat, and I am going back one day," said the lord,
darting a strange glance on his daughter, which the visitor intercepted.
"But, I suppose, the duke befriends your son?"
"He holds the son of his friend in horror, for he is a philosopher, and
he execrates them."
"The feeling is reciprocal," observed Andrea with perfect calm. "Clear
away, Legay!"
Startled from her vigilant watch on the window, the maid ran back to
the table.
"We used to stay at the board to two A. M. We had luxuries for supper,
then, that's why! and we drank when we could eat no more. But how can
one drink vinegar when there is nothing to eat? Legay, let us have the
Maraschino, provided there is any."
"Liqueurs," said Andrea to the maid, who took her orders from the baron
thus second-hand.
Her master sank back in his armchair and sighed with grotesque
melancholy while keeping his eyes closed.
"Albeit the duke may execrate your son--quite right, too, as he is a
philosopher," said Balsamo, "he ought to preserve his liking for you,
who are nothing of the kind. I presume you have claims on the king,
whom you must have served?"
"Fifteen years in the army. I was the marshal's aid-de-camp, and
we went through the Mahon campaign together. Our friendship dates
from--let me see! the famous siege of Philipsburg, 1742 to 1743."
"Yes, I was there, and remember you----"
"You remember me at the siege? Why, what is your age?"
"Oh, I am no particular age," replied the guest, holding up his glass
to be filled by Andrea's fair hand.
The host interpreted that his guest did not care to tell his years.
"My lord, allow me to say that you do not seem to have been a soldier,
then, as it is twenty-eight years ago, and you are hardly over thirty."
Andrea regarded the stranger with the steadfastness of deep curiosity;
he came out in a different light every instant.
"I know what I am talking about the famous siege, where the Duke
of Richelieu killed in a duel his cousin the Prince of Lixen. The
encounter came off on the highway, by my fay! on our return from the
outposts; on the embankment, to the left, he ran him through the body.
I came up as Prince Deux-ponts held the dying man in his arms. He was
seated on the ditch bank, while Richelieu tranquilly wiped his steel."
"On my honor, my lord, you astound me. Things passed as you describe."
"Stay, you wore a captain's uniform then, in the Queen's Light Horse
Guards, so badly cut up at Fontenoy?"
"Were you in that battle, too?" jeered the baron.
"No, I was dead at that time," replied the stranger, calmly.
The baron stared, Andrea shuddered, and Nicole made the sign of the
cross.
"To resume the subject, I recall you clearly now, as you held your
horse and the duke's while he fought. I went up to you for an account
and you gave it. They called you the Little Chevalier. Excuse me not
remembering before, but thirty years change a man. To the health of
Marshal Richelieu, my dear baron!"
"But, according to this, you would be upward of fifty."
"I am of the age to have witnessed that affair."
The baron dropped back in the chair so vexed that Nicole could not
help laughing. But Andrea, instead of laughing, mused with her looks
on the mysterious guest. He seemed to await this chance to dart two or
three flaming glances at her, which thrilled her like an electrical
discharge. Her arms stiffened, her neck bent, she smiled against her
will on the hypnotizer, and closed her eyes. He managed to touch her
arm, and again she quivered.
"Do you think I tell a fib in asserting I was at Philipsburg?" he
demanded.
"No, I believe you," she replied with a great effort.
"I am in my dotage," muttered Taverney, "unless we have a ghost here."
"Who can tell?" returned Balsamo, with so grave an accent that he
subjugated the lady and made Nicole stare.
"But if you were living at the Siege, you were a child of four or five."
"I was over forty."
The baron laughed and Nicole echoed him.
"You do not believe me. It is plain, though, for I was not the man I
am."
"This is a bit of antiquity," said the French noble. "Was there not a
Greek philosopher--these vile philosophers seem to be of all ages--who
would not eat beans because they contained souls, like the negress,
according to my son? What the deuse was his name?"
"That is the gentleman."
"Why may I not be Pythagoras?"
"Pythagoras," prompted Andrea.
"I do not deny that, but he was not at Philipsburg; or, at any rate, I
did not see him there."
"But you saw Viscount Jean Barreaux, one of the Black Horse Musketeers?"
"Rather; the musketeers and the light cavalry took turns in guarding
the trenches."
"The day after the Richelieu duel, Barreaux and you were in the
trenches when he asked you for a pinch of snuff, which you offered in
a gold box, ornamented with the portrait of a belle, but in the act
a cannon ball hit him in the throat, as happened the Duke of Berwick
aforetimes, and carried away his head."
"Gad! just so! poor Barreaux!"
"This proves that we were acquainted there, for I am Barreaux," said
the foreigner.
The host shrank back in fright or stupefaction.
"This is magic," he gasped; "you would have been burnt at the stake a
hundred years ago, my dear guest. I seem to smell brimstone!"
"My dear baron, note that a true magician is never burnt or hanged.
Only fools are led to the gibbet or pyre. But here is your daughter
sent to sleep by our discussions on metaphysics and occult sciences,
not calculated to interest a lady."
Indeed, Andrea nodded under irresistible force like a lily on the
stalk. At these words she made an effort to repel the subtle fluid
which overwhelmed her; she shook her head energetically, rose and
tottered out of the room, sustained by Nicole. At the same time
disappeared the face glued so often to the window glass on the outside,
which Balsamo had recognized as Gilbert's.
"_Eureka!_" exclaimed Balsamo triumphantly, as she vanished. "I can say
it like Archimedes."
"Who is he?" inquired the baron.
"A very good fellow for a wizard, whom I knew over two thousand years
ago," replied the guest.
Whether the baron thought this boast rather too preposterous, or he did
not hear it, or hearing it, wanted the more to be rid of his odd guest,
he proposed lending him a horse to get to the nearest posting house.
"What, force me to ride when I am dying to stretch my legs in bed? Do
not exaggerate your mediocrity so as to make me believe in a personal
ill will."
"On the contrary, I treat you as a friend, knowing what you will incur
here. But since you put it this way, remain. Labrie, is the Red-Room
habitable?"
"Certainly, my lord, as it is Master Philip's when he is here."
"Give it to the gentleman, since he is bent on being disgusted with
Taverney."
"I want to be here to-morrow to testify to my gratitude."
"You can do that easily, as you are so friendly with Old Nick that you
can ask him for the stone which turns all things to gold."
"If that is what you want, apply to me direct."
"Labrie, you old rogue, get a candle and light the gentleman to bed,"
said the baron, beginning to find such a dialogue dangerous at the late
hour.
Labrie ordered Nicole to air the Red Room while he hastened to obey.
Nicole left Andrea alone, the latter eager for the solitude to nurse
her thoughts. Taverney bade the guest good-night, and went to bed.
Balsamo took out his watch, for he recalled his promise to awake
Althotas after two hours, and it was a half-hour more. He asked the
servant if his coach was still out in the yard, and Labrie answered
in the affirmative--unless it had run off of its own volition. As for
Gilbert, he had been abed most likely since an hour.
Balsamo went to Althotas after studying the way to the Red Room. Labrie
was tidying up the sordid apartment, after Nicole had aired it, when
the guest returned.
He had paused at Andrea's room to listen at her door to her playing on
the harpsichord to dispel the burden of the influence the stranger had
imposed upon her. In a while he waved his hands as in throwing a magic
spell, and so it was, for Andrea slowly stopped playing, let her hands
drop by her sides, and turned rigidly and slowly toward the door, like
one who obeys an influence foreign to will.
Balsamo smiled in the darkness as though he could see through the
panels. This was all he wanted to do, for he groped for the banister
rail, and went up stairs to his room.
As he departed, Andrea turned away from the door and resumed playing,
so that the mesmerist heard the air again from where she had been made
to leave off.
Entering the Red Room, he dismissed Labrie; but the latter lingered,
feeling in the depths of his pocket till at last he managed to say:
"My lord, you made a mistake this evening, in giving me gold for the
piece of silver you intended."
Balsamo looked on the old servingman with admiration, showing that he
had not a high opinion of the honesty of most men.
"'And honest,'" he muttered in the words of Hamlet, as he took out a
second gold coin to place it beside the other in the old man's hand.
The latter's delight at this splendid generosity may be imagined, for
he had not seen so much gold in twenty years. He was retiring, bowing
to the floor, when the donor checked him.
"What are the morning habits of the house?" he asked.
"My lord stays abed late, my lord; but Mademoiselle Andrea is up
betimes, about six."
"Who sleeps overhead?"
"I, my lord; but nobody beneath, as the vestibule is under us."
"Oh, by the way, do not be alarmed if you see a light in my coach, as
an old impotent servant inhabits it. Ask Master Gilbert to let me see
him in the morning."
"Is my lord going away so soon?"
"It depends," replied Balsamo, with a smile. "I ought to be at
Bar-le-Duc tomorrow evening."
Labrie sighed with resignation, and was about to set fire to some old
papers to warm the room, which was damp and there was no wood, when
Balsamo stayed him.
"No, let them be; I might want to read them, for I may not sleep."
Balsamo went to the door to listen to the servant's departing steps
making the stairs creak till they sounded overhead; Labrie was in his
own room. Then he went to the window. In the other wing was a lighted
window, with half-drawn curtains, facing him. Legay was leisurely
taking off her neckerchief, often peeping down into the yard.
"Striking resemblance," muttered the baron.
The light went out though the girl had not gone to rest. The watcher
stood up against the wall. The harpsichord still sounded, with no other
noise. He opened his door, went down stairs with caution, and opened
the door of Andrea's sitting-room.
Suddenly she stopped in the melancholy strain, although she had not
heard the intruder. As she was trying to recall the thrill which had
mastered her, it came anew. She shivered all over. In the mirror she
saw movement. The shadow in the doorway could only be her father or a
servant. Nothing more natural.
But she saw with spiritual eyes that it was none of these.
"My lord," she faltered, "in heaven's name, what want you?"
It was the stranger, in the black velvet riding coat, for he had
discarded his silken suit, in which a mesmerist cannot well work his
power.
She tried to rise, but could not; she tried to open her mouth to
scream, but with a pass of both hands Balsamo froze the sound on her
lips.
With no strength or will, Andrea let her head sink on her shoulder.
At this juncture Balsamo believed he heard a noise at the window.
Quickly turning, he caught sight of a man's face beyond. He frowned,
and, strangely enough, the same impression flitted across the medium's
face.
"Sleep!" he commanded, lowering the hands he had held above her head
with a smooth gesture, and persevering in filling her with the mesmeric
fluid in crushing columns. "I will you to sleep."
All yielded to this mighty will. Andrea leaned her elbow on the
musical-instrument case, her head on her hand, and slept.
The mesmerist retired backward, drew the door to, and went back to his
room. As soon as the door closed, the face he had seen reappeared at
the window; it was Gilbert's.
Excluded from the parlor by his inferior position in Taverney Castle,
he had watched all the persons through the evening whose rank allowed
them to figure in it. During the supper he had noticed Baron Balsamo
gesticulate and smile, and his peculiar attention bestowed on the lady
of the house; the master's unheard-of affability to him, and Labrie's
respectful eagerness.
Later on, when they rose from table, he hid in a clump of lilacs and
snowballs, for fear that Nicole, closing the blinds or in going to her
room, should catch him eavesdropping.
But Gilbert had other designs this evening than spying. He waited,
without clearly knowing for what. When he saw the light in the maid's
window, he crossed the yard on tiptoe and crouched down in the gloom to
peer in at the window at Andrea playing the harpsichord.
This was the moment when the mesmerist entered the room.
At this sight, Gilbert started and his ardent gaze covered the magician
and his victim.
But he imagined that Balsamo complimented the lady on her musical
talent, to which she replied with her customary coldness; but he
had persisted with a smile so that she suspended her practice and
answered. He admired the grace with which the visitor retired.
Of all the interview which he fancied he read aright, he had understood
nothing, for what really happened was in the mind, in silence.
However keen an observer he was, he could not divine a mystery, where
everything had passed quite naturally.
Balsamo gone, Gilbert remained, not watching, but contemplating Andrea,
lovely in her thoughtful pose, till he perceived with astonishment that
she was slumbering. When convinced of this, he grasped his head between
his hands like one who fears his brain will burst from the overflow of
emotions.
"Oh, to kiss her hand!" he murmured, in a gush of fury. "Oh, Gilbert,
let us approach her--I so long to do it."
Hardly had he entered the room than he felt the importance of his
intrusion. The timid if not respectful son of a farmer to dare to raise
his eyes on that proud daughter of the peers. If he should touch the
hem of her dress she would blast him with a glance.
The floor boards creaked under his wary tread, but she did not move,
though he was bathed in cold perspiration.
"She sleeps--oh, happiness, she sleeps!" he panted, drawing with
irresistible attraction within a yard of the statue, of which he took
the sleeve and kissed it.
Holding his breath, slowly he raised his eyes, seeking hers. They were
wide open, but still saw not. Intoxicated by the delusion that she
expected his visit and her silence was consent, her quiet a favor, he
lifted her hand to his lips and impressed a long and feverish kiss.
She shuddered and repulsed him.
"I am lost!" he gasped, dropping the hand and beating the floor with
his forehead.
Andrea rose as though moved by a spring under her feet, passed by
Gilbert, crushed by shame and terror and with no power to crave pardon,
and proceeded to the door. With high-held head and outstretched neck,
as if drawn by a secret power toward an invisible goal, she opened the
door and walked out on the landing.
The youth rose partly and watched her take the stairs. He crawled after
her, pale, trembling and astonished.
"She is going to tell the baron and have me scourged out of the
house--no, she goes up to where the guest is lodged. For she would have
rung, or called, if she wanted Labrie."
He clenched his fists at the bare idea that Andrea was going into the
strange gentleman's room. All this seemed monstrous. And yet that was
her end.
That door was ajar. She pushed it open without knocking; the lamplight
streamed on her pure profile and whirled golden reflections into her
wildly open eyes.
In the center of the room Gilbert saw the baron standing, with fixed
gaze and wrinkled brow, and his hand extended in gesture of command,
ere the door swung to.
Gilbert's forces failed him; he wheeled round on the stairs, clinging
to the rail, but slid down, with his eyes fastened to the last on
the cursed panel, behind which was sealed up all his vanished dream,
present happiness and future hope.