OLD PATRICIANS AND NEW.
When the news spread of the royal splendor over the reception of
the bride from Austria, the dreadful curiosity of the Parisians was
sharpened, and they were to be seen flocking out to St. Denis by
scores, hundreds and thousands.
Gilbert was lost in the multitude, but, seeing some urchins climb up
in the trees, and the exercise being child's play to him, he clambered
into a linn tree and perched on a bough to wait.
Half an hour after, drums beat, cannon thundered, and the majestic
cathedral bell began to boom.
In the distance a shrill cry arose, but became full and more deep as it
drew near. It made Gilbert prick up the ear and his whole body quiver.
"Long life to the king!"
It was the customary cheer.
A herd of horses, neighing under housings of gold and purple, swarmed
on the highway; they were the royal household troops, guards, Swiss
dragoons, musketeers and gendarmes.
Then a massive and magnificent coach loomed up.
Gilbert perceived a stately head under a hat, when all were uncovered,
and a blue sash. He saw the royal glance, cold and penetrative, before
which all bowed and heads were bared. Fascinated, intoxicated, panting
and frozen, he forgot to lift his hat. A violent blow drew him
from his ecstasy; his hat had been knocked off with the stroke of a
soldier's halberd.
"I beg pardon," he stammered. "I am fresh from the country."
"Then learn that you must salute all the royal carriages, whoever may
be in them," said the halberdier gruffly. "If you do not know the
emblem of the lilyflower, I will teach you."
"You need not. I know," said Gilbert.
The royal equipages passed in a prolonged line. Gilbert gazed on them
so intently that he seemed stupefied.
At the Royal Abbey doors they stopped successively to let the noblemen
and ladies alight. These setting-down movements caused halts of a few
minutes.
In one of them Gilbert felt a burning dart rush through his heart.
He was dazzled so that all was effaced in his sight, and so violent a
shivering overwhelmed him that he was forced to catch at the branch not
to tumble off.
Right in front of him, not ten paces off, in one of the vehicles with
the lily brand which he had been advised to salute, he perceived the
splendidly luminous face of Andrea Taverney; she was clad in white,
like an angel or a ghost.
He uttered a faint outcry; but then, triumphing over the emotions which
had mastered him together, he commanded his heart to cease to beat that
he might look at the star.
Such was the young man's power over himself that he succeeded.
Wishful to learn why the horses had been reined in, Andrea leaned
out, and, as her bright blue eyes traveled round, she caught sight of
Gilbert and recognized him.
Gilbert suspected that she would be surprised and would inform her
father of the discovery, as he sat next her.
He was not wrong, for Andrea called the baron's attention to the youth.
"Gilbert," said the nobleman, who was puffing himself up at the coach
window, in his handsome red sash of the order of knighthood. "He, here?
Who is taking care of my hound, then?"
Hearing the words, the young man respectfully bowed to Andrea and her
father. But it took him all his powers to make the effort.
"It is so. It is the rascal in person," said the baron.
On Andrea's face, observed by Gilbert with sustained attention, was
perfect calm under slight surprise.
Leaning out of the carriage, the baron beckoned to his ex-retainer. But
the soldier who had given the youth a lesson in etiquette stopped him.
"Let the lad come to me," said the lord; "I have a couple of words to
say to him."
"You may go half a dozen, my lord," said the sergeant, flattered by the
nobleman addressing him; "plenty of time, for they are speechifying
under the porch. Pass, younker."
"Come hither, rogue," said the baron on Gilbert affecting not to hurry
himself out of his usual walk. "Tell me by what chance you are out here
at St. Denis when you ought to be at Taverney?"
"It is no chance," replied Gilbert, saluting lord and lady for the
second time, "but the act of my free will."
"What do you mean by your will, varlet? Have you such a thing as a will
of your own?"
"Why not? Every free man has his own."
"Free man? Do you fancy yourself free, you unhappy dog?"
"Of course, since I parted with my freedom to no one."
"On my word, here's a pretty knave," said the baron, taken aback by
the coolness of the speaker. "How dare you be in town, and how did you
manage to get here?"
"I walked it," said Gilbert shortly.
"Walked!" repeated Andrea with some pity.
"But I ask what you have come here for?" continued the baron.
"To get an education, which is assured me, and make my fortune, which I
hope for."
"What are you doing meanwhile--begging?"
"Begging?" reiterated Gilbert, with superb scorn.
"Thieving, then?"
"I never stole anything from Taverney," retorted Gilbert, with such
proud and wild firmness that it riveted the girl's attention on him for
a space.
"What mischief does your idle hand find to do, then?"
"What a genius is doing, whom I seek to resemble if only by
perseverance; I copy music," replied the rebel.
"You copy music?" queried Andrea, turning round. "Then you know it?" in
the tone of one saying, "You are a liar."
"I know the notes, and that is enough for copying. I like music dearly,
and I used to listen to the lady playing at the harpsichord."
"You eavesdropper!"
"I got the airs by heart to begin with; and next, as I saw they were
written in a book, I saw a method in it and I learnt it."
"You dared to touch my book?" said Andrea, at the height of indignation.
"I had no need to touch it; it lay open. I looked, and there is no
soiling a printed page by a look."
"Let me tell you," sneered the baron, "that we shall have this imp
declare that he can play the piano like Haydn."
"I might have learnt that if I had presumed to touch the keys," said
the youth, confidently.
Against her inclination, Andrea cast a second look on the face animated
by a feeling like a martyr's in fanaticism. But the lord, who had not
his daughter's calmness and clear head, felt his wrath kindle at the
youth being right and their being inhumane in leaving him with the
watchdog at Taverney. It is hard to forgive an inferior for the wrong
which he may convict us with; hence he grew heated as his daughter
cooled.
"You rapscallion!" he said. "You desert and play the vagabond and
spout such tomfoolery as we hear when you are brought to task. But as
I do not wish the king's highway to be infested with gipsy tramps and
thieves----"
Andrea held up her hand to appease the patrician, whose exaggeration
annulled his superiority. But he put her aside and continued:
"I shall tell Chief of Police Sartines about you, and have you locked
up in the House of Correction, you fledgeling philosopher."
"Lord Baron," returned Gilbert, drawing back but slapping his hat down
on his head with the ire which made him white, "I have found patrons in
town at whose door your Sartines dances attendance!"
"The deuse you say so?" questioned the baron. "You shall taste the
stirrup leather anyway. Andrea, call your brother, who is close to
hand."
Andrea stooped out toward the offender and bade him begone in an
imperious voice.
"Philip," called the old noble.
Gilbert stood on the spot, mute and unmoving, as in ecstatic worship.
Up rode a cavalier at the call; it was the Knight of Redcastle, joyous
and brilliant in a captain's uniform.
"Why, it is Gilbert," he exclaimed. "The idea of his being here!
Good-day, Gilbert. What do you want, father?"
"I want you to whip this malapert with your sword-scabbard," roared the
old patrician, pale with anger.
"What has he done?" inquired Philip, looking with growing astonishment
from his father in age to the youth who had tranquilly returned his
greeting.
"Never mind what he has done, but lash him, Philip, as you would a dog!"
"What has he done?" asked the chevalier, turning to his sister. "Has he
insulted you?"
"I insult her?" repeated Gilbert.
"Not at all," answered Andrea. "He has done nothing. Father let his
passion get the upper hand of him. Gilbert is no longer in our service
and has the right to go wherever he likes. Father does not understand
this and flew into a rage."
"Is that all?" asked Captain Philip.
"All, brother, and I do not understand father's wrath about such stuff
and for the trash who do not deserve a look. Just see if we are not to
go on again, Philip."
Subdued by his daughter's serenity, the baron was quiet. Crushed by
such scorn, Gilbert lowered his head. Something ran through his heart
much like hatred. He would have preferred Philip Taverney's sword or
even a cut of his whip. He came near swooning.
Luckily the speechmaking was over and the procession moved forward once
more. Andrea was carried on, and faded as in a dream.
Gilbert thought he was alone in his grief, believing that he could
never support the weight of such misfortune. But a hand was laid on his
shoulder.
Turning, he saw Philip, who came smiling toward him, having dismounted
and given his steed to his orderly to hold.
"I should like to hear what has happened," he said, "and how my poor
Gilbert has come to Paris?"
This frank and cordial greeting touched the young man.
"What was I to do on the old place?" he asked, with a sigh, torn
from his wild stoicism. "I should have died of hunger, ignorance and
despair."
Philip started, for his impartial mind, like Andrea's, was struck by
the painful loneliness in which the youth was left.
"But do you imagine that you can succeed in Paris, a poor boy, without
resources and protectors?"
"I do. The man who can work rarely dies of want, where so many want to
live without working."
The hearer started at this reply; previously he had regarded him as a
dependent of no importance.
"I earn my daily bread, Captain Philip, and that is a great gain for
one who was blamed for eating bread which he did nothing for."
"I hope you are not referring to what you had at Taverney, for your
father and mother were good tenants and you were often useful."
"I only did my duty."
"Mark me, Gilbert," continued the young gentleman. "You know I always
liked you. I looked upon you differently to others. The future will
show whether I was right or wrong. To me your standing aloof was
fastidiousness; your plainspokenness I called straightforward."
"Thanks," said the young man, breathing delightedly.
"It follows that I wish you well. Young like you and unhappy as I was
situated, I thus understood you. Fortune has smiled upon me. Let
me help you in anticipation of the lady on the wheel smiling on you
likewise."
"I thank you."
"Do you blush to take my help, when all men are brothers?"
Gilbert fastened his intelligent eyes on the speaker's noble features,
astonished at hearing the language from those lips.
"Such is the talk of the new generation," said he; "opinions shared by
the dauphin himself. Do not be proud with me, but take what you may
return me another day. Who knows but that you may be a great financier
or statesman----"
"Or doctor-surgeon," said Gilbert.
"Just as you please. Here is my purse; take half."
"I thank you, but I need nothing," replied the unconquerable young man,
softened by Philip's admirable brotherly love; "but be sure that I am
more grateful to you than if I had accepted your offer."
He mingled with the mob, leaving Philip stupefied for several seconds,
unable to credit sight and hearing. Seeing Gilbert did not reappear, he
mounted his horse and regained his place.