EFFORTS AT ATONEMENT.
Madame Gosner was absent from her apartments. The terrible
disappointment which had fallen upon her preyed so heavily upon her mind
that anything like repose was impossible. For the time she was at war
with life itself. The doubt that her husband was still living haunted
her like a cry of destiny. She said little, and scarcely tasted food.
The never-ending pain of her existence renewed itself, and threatened
destruction to both reason and life.
Marguerite felt the change and was so wounded by it that her young life
was doubly embittered. She did not share in her mother’s doubts of the
king and queen; but honestly believed that her father had perished in
prison, as thousands had died in that terrible place.
All these thoughts weighed down the heart of that young girl, for now
she felt more lonely than ever. She was crying bitterly in her solitude
when Monsieur Jacques came in. The man was greatly changed, both in
person and manner, since she first saw him. He had gradually thrown off
the rude dress and seeming of a plebeian, and assumed the garments and
habits of a gentleman of the second class. His hair no longer concealed
a noble forehead under its tangled masses; his hands were cleansed from
the dust of the work-shop; his features, having thrown off their heavy
expression, were grand rather than harsh. Marguerite did not know that
she herself had won this man out of his extreme radicalism, and lured
him back to his old nature, but it produced a kind and winning
impression on her, which deepened the gratitude already in her heart,
and would have made love a possibility but for the face she had seen
that day in the streets of Paris, when her first flowers were offered
for sale.
“Why is it that you weep?” he inquired, seating himself by the girl, and
taking her hand tenderly in his, as if it had been a lost bird he feared
to frighten.
“You ask me this, as if I had not double cause for tears,” she said,
lifting her eyes to his face with a look of pathetic desolation. “My
poor father is dead, I can no longer have a hope for him; my mother is
silent, stern, self-absorbed—she leaves me alone. Still you ask me not
to weep.”
“Marguerite!”
She looked up quickly; then her eyelids drooped, and the slow color came
to her cheeks. “You were about to say something, monsieur,” she said,
very softly.
“Is there nothing else that makes you unhappy? Has repentance for the
words you spoke the other day nothing to do with it? Is it that you
think it a promise, and so weep?”
“I think it a promise, but do not weep for that,” she answered, lifting
her mournful eyes to his face. “But, oh, monsieur! it will never be—my
poor father is dead.”
Monsieur Jacques dropped her hand. Was it the certainty of her father’s
death that had made Marguerite so willing to give that promise?
“Marguerite!”
It was the second time he had called her by that name, in a voice so
sweet and low that it thrilled her to the heart. She attempted to
answer, but could not.
“Marguerite, I love you! How much no human being can ever know, and I
dare not attempt to tell you, lest you think me mad; but I do love you,
and hope to win some little return. You did promise to _love_ the man
who brought your father alive from the Bastille. Or was that one of my
wild dreams?”
“It was a promise,” said Marguerite, timidly.
“And if I give freedom to your father?”
The color left the face on which his pleading eyes were fastened. It
seemed to him that a look of affright broke into her eyes; but after a
moment she held out her hand.
“It was a promise,” she said, simply.
Monsieur Jacques flung himself on his knees before that young girl. He
grasped her hands and covered them with kisses; and then she felt great,
warm tears falling over them, as if in penitence he was striving to wash
the kisses away.
“If it is in the power of mortal man to break through those walls to
find and liberate your father, it shall be done,” he said, rising from
his knees.
Marguerite followed him with her eyes, which slowly filled with tears.
“It will be all in vain,” she murmured, “my poor father must be dead. It
was no fraud that the beautiful queen and that good king committed. How
can my mother, how can you, Monsieur Jacques, believe them guilty of
this cruel deception?”
“Wait! Do not let us judge yet! By-and-by we shall know; for as there is
a just God in heaven, not a stone shall be left upon another of that
hideous building!”
As Monsieur Jacques spoke, a clear, ringing knock sounded at the door of
the room. Marguerite arose, but it was flung open, and a man, dressed as
a page, and with the audacious air of a superior, entered the room.
“I was ordered,” he said, looking around, “to find a lady, the wife or
widow of one Dr. Gosner, who died last week in the Bastille. Is this her
apartment, or have I been directed amiss?”
“Madame Gosner has gone out,” answered Monsieur Jacques, for Marguerite
was so taken by surprise that she could find no voice.
“Then I must wait,” said the page, seating himself; “it is my orders.”
“Fortunately, that is madame’s step on the stairs,” answered Monsieur
Jacques; and that moment Madame Gosner entered the room, her noble
presence, the air of refinement and authority with which she presented
herself, brought the page to his feet, and prompted a low bow, to which
madame turned a calm and questioning look.
“Madame will forgive what may seem like an intrusion,” said the page;
“but I am ordered by a personage that I dare not venture to disobey, and
must do my errand. This personage has heard with profound regret that
the husband of madame has perished in the Bastille just as the royal
clemency had ordered that he should be set at liberty. There is no power
in France that can bring back life, but all that justice and sympathy
can offer to his widow and child I am empowered to give. In this
portfolio, lady, are twenty thousand francs, which I am ordered to
present to your daughter as a marriage portion, should she ever choose
to leave her mother’s protection. For yourself there is an annuity
already secured, which will make your future life free from care.”
The page paused, and held out a small portfolio; but Madame Gosner put
it gently back.
“Did this come from the king?” she inquired.
“Madame, I am forbidden to answer.”
“Or the queen?”
“Here also I must be silent.”
“If it comes from either the King or Queen of France, take it back, with
this message: say that the wife of Dr. Gosner accepts no bribes, and has
no price for her husband’s liberty. Say that she knows——”
Here Monsieur Jacques laid his hand on her arm, and checked the
imprudent words that trembled on her lips—words that had left the cheek
of the page suddenly colorless.
“The lady simply means to say that she can accept no bounty from the
King or Queen of France,” he interposed with dignity; “therefore your
errand is so far accomplished.”
The page put away the portfolio in the folds of his tunic, and moved
toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he turned back,
drawing it forth again.
“Madame, this money does not come from their majesties, who are at this
moment, for aught I know, ignorant of Dr. Gosner’s death; nor is it a
gratuity. In his early life, that learned man did a service to the
person who sent me here—a service which has never been repaid, and
which, at this time, nothing but money can repay. Hearing of his hard
fate, that person was conscience-stricken. A debt so justly due should
have been paid to his widow or his heirs; but it was unknown in France
that the unfortunate gentleman had either a wife or child. You will not
wrong a person who wishes to redeem a neglect that may have caused much
trouble by refusing the privilege of restitution.”
“But what was the nature of this debt? In what way was it created?”
demanded Madame Gosner.
“Without danger to the person in question I cannot explain,” answered
the page; “but of this be assured, it is justly due, and this money will
never be used for any other purpose. Indeed, a portion of it is invested
in your name beyond recall. The rest I will not carry from this room—it
is my orders.”
The page waited for no answer, but laid the portfolio on a table, and
went swiftly out of the room, leaving its inmates gazing on each other
in blank amazement.
“Follow that man Monsieur Jacques,” exclaimed madame; “I will receive
none of his money. Who has dared to force a charity on me in this way?”
Monsieur Jacques took the portfolio and hurried with it down stairs. He
reached the door just in time to see the page spring upon his horse, and
flung the portfolio at the animal’s feet. The page dismounted, took up
the portfolio, and rode away with a dejected air.
Monsieur Jacques entered Madame Gosner’s room again.
“Have you done right to reject this money?” he said. “Perhaps his story
is true. With all his knowledge and power, it would be strange if your
husband might not have performed some act which would entitle him to a
sum like this.”
“But I will not take it! Who in all France, save the royal pair at
Versailles, knew that my husband was supposed to have died so lately? No
one but the governor of the Bastille; and he is not likely to have
appeased his conscience in this way.”
“But even from the king it might have been accepted in behalf of France!
It would help to feed many a famished mouth.”
“The people of France! Oh! I had forgotten them!” cried Madame Gosner,
with enthusiasm. “But, no, no! I could not have taken it even for them.
Gold coming from the man or woman of Versailles would blister my palm.
Let us think no more of it; while they have hands to work, neither
Gosner’s wife or child will ever accept alms.”
“God grant that the good man still lives!” said Monsieur Jacques.
“God grant it!” answered the woman, sadly; “but sometimes it seems such
a forlorn hope. If he is alive? How the words torture me! Oh! of all
torments, uncertainty is the greatest!”
“Trust me it shall not long be uncertainty.”
“What do you mean—is this a promise?”
“Upon which more than my poor life depends. Within three days we will
know of a certainty that Dr. Gosner is alive and still a prisoner in the
Bastille, or dead. Then it becomes our duty to save or avenge him.”
“But in either case?” questioned the woman, wistfully.
“In either case that monstrous pile is doomed. It shall no longer crouch
like a monster on the heart of France. Will you not breathe one prayer
for me?”
These gentle words were spoken to the young girl, who lifted her
beautiful eyes and met his gaze with a gentle smile.
“I shall not cease to pray till we meet again,” she said.
Madame Gosner heard this conversation, and was struck by the thrilling
tenderness of Monsieur Jacques’ voice.
“What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, sharply. “I do not
understand.”
“It means,” answered Monsieur Jacques, “that I love her better than my
own soul. When I have rescued her father from his dungeon, this will be
the reward I shall dare to claim.”
The strong man fell upon his knees as he spoke, and pressed Marguerite’s
hand to his lips. Then he arose, saying aloud, “God and our Lady prosper
this day’s work—the reward is so great that it makes a coward of me.”