NEAR NEIGHBORS.
On parting from young Taverney, Gilbert had plunged into the crowd. But
not with a heart bounding with glee and expectation--rather with the
soul ulcerated by grief which the noble's kind welcome and obliging
offers of assistance could not mollify.
Andrea never suspected that she had been cruel to the youth. The fair
and serene maiden was completely unaware that there could be any link
between her and her foster-brother, for joy or sorrow. She soared over
earthly spheres, casting on them shine or shadow according to her being
smiling or gloomy. This time it chanced that her shade of disdain had
chilled Gilbert; as she had merely followed the impulse of her temper,
she was ignorant that she had been scornful.
But Gilbert, like a disarmed gladiator, had received the proud speech
and the scorning looks straight in the heart. He was not enough of a
philosopher yet not to console himself with despair while the wound was
bleeding.
Hence he did not notice men or horses in the press. Gathering up his
strength, he rushed into it, at the risk of being crushed, like a wild
boar cutting through the pack of hounds.
At length breathing more freely, he reached the green sward, water side
and loneliness. He had run to the river Seine, and came out opposite
St. Denis island. Exhausted, not by bodily fatigue but by spiritual
anguish, he rolled on the grass, and roared like a lion transfixed by
a spear, as if the animal's voice better expressed his woes than human
tongue.
Was not all the vague and undecided hope which had flung a little light
on the mad ideas, not to be accounted for to himself, now extinguished
at a blow? To whatever step on the social ladder Gilbert might rise
by dint of genius, science and study, he would always be a man or a
thing--according to her own words, for which her father was wrong in
paying any attention, and not worth her lowering her eyes upon.
He had briefly fancied that, on seeing him in the capital, and learning
his resolution to struggle till he came up through the darkness, Andrea
would applaud the effort. Not only had the cheer failed the brave boy,
but he had met the haughty indifference always had for the dependent by
the young lady of the manor.
Furthermore she had shown anger that he should have looked at her music
book; had he touched it, he did not doubt that he would be thought fit
to be burned at the stake.
As he writhed on the turf, he knew not whether he loved or hated his
torturer; he suffered, that was all. But as he was not capable of long
patience, he sprang out of his prostration, decided to invent some
energetic course.
"Granted that she does not love me," he reasoned, "I must not hope
that she never will. I had the right to expect from her the mild
interest attached to those who wrestle with their misfortune. She did
not understand what her brother saw. He thought that I might become a
celebrity; should it happen so, he would act fairly and let me have his
sister, in reward of my earned glory, as he would have exchanged her
for my native aristocracy, had I been born his equal.
"But I shall always be plain Gilbert in her eyes, for she looks down
in me upon what nothing can efface, gild or cover--my low birth. As
though, supposing I attain my mark, it would not be greater of me than
if I had started on her high level! Oh, mad creature! senseless being!
oh, woman, woman--your other name is Imperfection.
"Do not be deluded by the splendid gaze, intelligent smile, and
queenly port of Andrea de Taverney, whose beauty makes her fit to rule
society--she is but a rustic dame, straitlaced, limited, swathed in
aristocratic prejudices. Equals for her are those empty-headed fops,
with effete minds, who had the means to learn everything and know
nothing; they are the men to whom she pays heed. Gilbert is but a dog,
less than a dog, for I believe she asked after Mahon, and not about my
welfare.
"Ah, she is ignorant that I am fit to cope with them; when I wear
the like coats, I shall look as well; and that, with my inflexible
determination, I shall grasp----"
A dreadful smile was defined on his lips where the sentence died away
unfinished. Frowning, he slowly lowered his head.
What passed in that obscure soul? What terrible plan bent the pale
forehead, already sallow with sleepless nights, and furrowed by
thinking? Who shall tell?
At the close of half an hour's profound meditation, Gilbert rose,
coldly determined. He went to the river, drank a long draft, and
looking round, saw the distant waves of the people in a sea coming out
of St. Denis.
They so crowded in upon the first coaches that the horses had to go at
a walk, on the road to St. Ouen.
The dauphin wanted the ceremony to be a national family festival. So
the French family abused the privilege; a number of Parisians climbed
on the footboards and hung there without being disturbed.
Very soon Gilbert recognized the Taverney carriage, with Philip holding
in his capering horse by the side.
"I must know where she goes," thought the lover; "and so shall follow
them."
It was intended that the dauphiness should sup with the royal
family in private at Muette, but Louis XV. had broken the etiquette
so far as to make up a larger party. He handed a list of guests to
the dauphiness, with a pencil, and suggested she should strike out
the names of any not liked to come. When she came to the last name,
Countess Dubarry's, she felt her lips quiver and lose blood; but
sustained by her mother's instructions, she summoned up her powers to
her aid, and with a charming smile returned the paper and pencil to the
king, saying that she was very happy to be let into the bosom of all
his family at the very first.
Gilbert knew nothing about this, and it was only when he got to Muette
that he recognized the coach of Dubarry, with Zamore mounted on a high
white horse. Luckily it was dark, and Gilbert threw himself on the
ground in a grove and waited.
The king, then, shared supper between mistress and daughter-in-law, and
was merry especially on seeing that the newcomer treated the usurper
more kindly even than at Compiegne.
But the dauphin, gloomy and careworn, spoke of having the headache, and
retired before they sat at table.
The supper was prolonged to eleven o'clock.
The king sent a band of music to play to the repast for the gentry of
the retinue--of which our proud Andrea had to admit she was a member;
as the accommodation was limited, fifty masters had to picnic on the
lawn, served by men in royal livery. In the thicket, Gilbert lost
nothing of this scene. Taking out a piece of bread, he ate along with
the guests, while watching that those he attended to did not slip away.
After the meal, the dauphiness came out on the balcony to take leave
of her hosts. Near her stood the king. Countess Dubarry kept out of
sight in the back of the room, with that exquisite tact which even her
enemies allowed she had.
The courtiers passed under the balcony to salute the king, who named
such of them to the dauphiness as she did not already know. From time
to time some happy allusion or pleasant saying dropped from his lips,
to delight those who received it. Seeing this servility, Gilbert
muttered to himself:
"I am a touch above these slaves, for I would not crouch like that for
all the gold in the world."
He rose on one knee when the turn came for the Taverneys to pass.
"Captain Taverney," said the dauphiness, "I grant you leave to conduct
your father and sister to Paris."
In the nightly silence and amid the attention of those drinking in the
august words, Gilbert caught the sound coming in his direction.
"My lord baron," continued the princess, "I have no accommodation yet
for you among my household; so guard your daughter in town until I set
up my establishment at Versailles. Keep me in mind, my dear young lady."
The baron passed on with son and daughter. Others came up for whom the
princess had pretty stuff to say, but that little mattered to Gilbert.
Gliding out of the covert, he followed the baron among the two hundred
footmen shouting out their master's names, fifty coachmen roaring out
in answer to the lackeys, while sixty coaches rolled over the pavement
like thunder.
As Taverney had a royal carriage, it waited for him aside from the
common herd. He stepped in, with Andrea and Philip, and the door closed
after them.
"Get on the box with the driver," said Philip to the footman. "He has
been on his feet all day, and must be worn out."
The baron grumbled some remonstrance not heard by Gilbert, but the
lackey mounted beside the driver. Gilbert went nearer. At the time of
starting a trace got loose and the driver had to alight to set it right.
"It is very late," said the baron.
"I am dreadfully tired," sighed Andrea. "I hope we shall find a
sleeping place somewhere."
"I expect so," replied her brother. "I sent Labrie and Nicole straight
to Paris from Soissons. I gave him a letter to a friend for him to let
us have a little house in the rear of his, where his mother and sister
live when they come up from the country. It is not luxury, but it is
comfortable. You do not want to make a show while you are waiting for
the coming out in the suitable style."
"Anything will easily beat Taverney," said the old lord.
"Unfortunately, yes," added the captain.
"Any garden?" asked Andrea.
"Quite a little park, for town, with fine trees. However, you will not
long enjoy it, as you will be presented as soon as the wedding is over."
"We are in a bright dream--do not waken us. Did you give the coachman
the address?"
"Yes, father," replied the young noble, while Gilbert greedily listened.
He had hoped to catch the address.
"Never mind," he muttered; "it is only a league to town. I will follow
them."
But the royal horses could go at a rattling gait when not kept in line
with others. The trace being mended, the man mounted his box and drove
off rapidly--so rapidly that this reminded poor Gilbert of how he had
fallen on the road under the hoofs of Chon's post-horses.
Making a spurt, he reached the untenanted footboard, and hung on behind
for an instant. But the thought struck him that he was in the menial's
place behind Andrea's carriage, and he muttered:
"No! it shall not be said that I did not fight it out to the last. My
legs are tired, but not my arms."
Seizing the edge of the footboard with both hands, the inflexible youth
swung his feet up under the body of the coach so as to get them on the
foresprings; thus suspended, he was carried on, spite of the jerking,
over the wretched rutty road. He stuck to the desperate situation by
strength of arm, rather than capitulate with his conscience.
"I shall learn her address," he thought. "It will be another wakeful
night; but to-morrow I shall have repose, seated while I am copying
music. I have a trifle of money, too, and I will take a little rest."
He reflected that Paris was very large and that he might be lost after
seeing the baron to his house. Happily it was near midnight, and dawn
came at half after three.
As he was pondering he remarked that they crossed an open place where
stood an equestrian statue in the midst.
"Victories Place," he thought gleefully; "I know it."
The vehicle turning partly round and Andrea put her head out to see the
statue.
"The late king," explained her brother. "We are pretty nearly there
now."
They went down so steep a hill that Gilbert was nearly scraped off.
"Here we are," cried the dragoon captain.
Gilbert dropped and slipped out from beneath to hide behind a
horseblock on the other side.
Young Taverney got out first, rang at a house doorbell, and returned to
receive Andrea in his arms. The baron was the last out.
"Are those rascals going to keep us out all night?" he snarled.
At this the voices of Labrie and Nicole were heard, and a door opened.
The three Taverneys were engulfed in a dark courtyard where the door
closed upon them. The vehicle and attendants went their way to the
royal stables.
Nothing remarkable was apparent on the house; but the carriage lamps
had flashed on the next doorway, which had a label: "This is the
mansion of the Armenonvilles." Gilbert did not know what street it was
as yet, but going to the far end, the same the carriage had gone out
of, he was startled to see the public fountain at which he drank in the
mornings. Going ten paces up the street he saw the baker's shop where
he supplied himself. Still doubting, he returned to the corner. By the
gleam of a swinging lamp, he could read on a white stone the name read
three days before when coming from Meudon Wood with Rousseau:
"Plastrière Street."
It followed that Andrea was lodged a hundred steps apart, nearer than
she was to him at Taverney.
So he went to his own door, hoping that the latchet might not be
drawn altogether within. It was pulled in, but it was frayed and a
few threads stuck out. He drew one and then another so that the thong
itself came forth at last. He lifted the latch, and entered, for it was
one of his lucky days.
He groped up the stairs one by one, without making any noise, and
finally touched the padlock on his own bedroom door, in which Rousseau
had thoughtfully left the key.