SECOND SIGHT.
From his garret, Gilbert was watching, or rather devouring Andrea’s
room. It would be hard to tell whether his eyes now gazed with love or
hatred. But the curtains were drawn and he could see nothing in that
quarter; he turned to another.
Here he espied the plume of Corporal Beausire, as the soldier to beguile
his waiting, whistled a tune. It was not till ten minutes had elapsed
that Nicole appeared. She made her lover a sign which he understood, for
he nodded and went towards a walk in a cutting leading to the Little
Trianon.
Nicole ran back as lightly as a bird.
“Ha, ha,” thought Gilbert, “Nicole and her trooper have something to say
to each other which will not bear witnesses. Good!”
He was no longer curious about Nicole’s flirtations, but he regarded her
as a natural enemy and it was wise to know all her doings. In her
immorality he wanted to find the weapon with which he might victoriously
meet her in case she should attack him. He did not doubt that the
campaign would open and he meant to have a good supply of weapons, like
a true warrior.
So he nimbly came down from his loft, and reached the gardens by the
chapel side-door. He had nothing to fear now as he knew all the coverts
of the place like a fox at home. Thus he was able to reach the clump
where he heard a strange sound for the woods--the chink of coin on a
stone. Gliding like a serpent up to the terrace wall, hedged with
lilacs, he saw Nicole at the grating, emptying a purse on a stone out of
Beausire’s reach by being on her side of the railing. It was the purse
given by Richelieu, or strictly speaking the cash for the Treasury notes
which she had converted. The fat gold pieces clinked down, glittering,
while the corporal, with kindled eye and trembling hand, attentively
looked at Nicole and them without comprehending how they came into
company.
“My dear Beausire, more than once you have wanted me to elope,” began
Nicole.
“And to marry you,” added the soldier, quite enthusiastically.
“We will argue that point hereafter,” replied the girl; “at present, the
main thing is to get away. Can we be off in a couple of hours?”
“In ten minutes, if you like.”
“No; I have some work to do first and a couple of hours will suit me.
Take these fifty louis,” and she passed the amount between the bars; he
pocketed them without counting, “and in an hour and a half be here with
a coach.”
“I do not shrink: but I am fearful about you--when the money is spent
you will regret the palace and---- ”
“Oh, how thoughtful you are! do not be alarmed: I am not one of the sort
to become unfortunate. Have no scruples. We shall see what comes next
after the fifty louis.”
She counted another fifty louis into her own purse: Beausire’s eyes
became phosphorescent.
“I would jump into a blazing furnace for you,” he said.
“You are not asked to do so much,” she returned: “get the coach and in
two hours we are off.”
“Agreed,” and he drew her to the rails to kiss her. “Oh, how are you
going to get through the railings?”
“Stupid, I have the pass-key.”
Beausire uttered an Ah! full of admiration, and fled.
With brisk feet and thoughtful head, Nicole returned to her mistress,
leaving Gilbert alone, to cogitate the questions which this interview
excited. All he could guess of the puzzles was how the girl had obtained
the money. This negation of his perspicacity was so goading to his
natural curiosity or his acquired mistrust--have it either way--that he
decided to pass the night in the open air, cold though it was, under the
damp trees, to await the sequel to this scene.
A huge black cloud, coming out of the south, covered all the sky, so
that beyond Versailles the sombre pall gradually lapped up all the stars
which had been gleaming a while before in their azure canopy.
Nicole feared that some whim of her mistress would contravene her plan,
and with that air of interest which the artful cat knew so well how to
take, she said:
“I am afraid that you are not very well to-night; your eyes are red and
swollen; I should think repose would do you good.”
“Do you think so? perhaps it would,” answered Andrea, without paying
much heed, but extending her feet on a rug as she sat.
The girl accepted this reclining pose as a signal for her to take down
her mistress’s headdress for the night; the unbuilding of a structure of
ribbons, flowers and wire, which the most skillful “house-breaker” could
not have demolished in an hour. Nicole was not a quarter of that time
doing it.
The toilet for the night being completed, Andrea gave her orders for the
coming day. The tuner was to come for her harpsichord and some books
which Philip had sent to Versailles were to be fetched. Nicole
tranquilly answered that if she were not roused in the night she would
be up early, and would do everything before her mistress rose.
As Andrea, in her long night wrapper, was dreaming in her chair, Nicole
put two drops of the draught Richelieu had given her, into the glass of
drink on the night-table. Turbid for a moment, the water took an opal
tint which faded away gradually.
“Your night-drink is set out,” said the maid: “your dresses folded up
and the night-light lit. As I must be up early, can I go to bed now?”
“Yes,” replied Andrea, absently.
Nicole went out and glided into the garden.
Gilbert was looking out for her as he promised himself he would do, and
saw her go up to the gates where she passed the master key to Beausire,
who was ready. The gate was opened and the girl slipped through. The
gate was locked again and the key thrown over, where Gilbert noticed its
place of falling on the sward.
He drew a long breath in relief for he was quit of Nicole, an enemy.
Andrea was left alone, and he might penetrate to her room.
This idea set his blood boiling with all the fury of fear and disquiet,
curiosity and desire.
But, as he placed his foot on the lowest stairs of the flight leading to
Andrea’s corridor, he beheld her, garbed in white, at the top step,
coming down.
So white and solemn was she that he recoiled, and buried himself in a
copse.
Once before, at Taverney, he had seen her thus walking in her sleep,
when she was, without his suspecting it, under the mesmeric influence of
Balsamo, the Magician.
Andrea passed Gilbert, almost touched him but did not see him.
Bewildered and overwhelmed, he felt his knees crook beneath him: he was
frightened.
Not knowing to what errand to ascribe this night roaming, he watched
her: but his reason was confounded, and his blood beat with impetuosity
in his temples, being nearer folly than the coolness which a good
observer ought to possess. He viewed her as he had always done since
this fatal passion had entered his heart.
All of a sudden he thought the mystery was revealed: Andrea was not
wandering out of her mind, but going to keep an appointment, albeit her
step was slow and sepulchral.
A lightning flash illumined the sky. By its bluish glare Gilbert caught
sight of a man, hiding in the linden walk, with pale visage and clothes
in disorder. He stretched out one hand towards the girl as though to
beckon her to him.
Something like pincers nipped Gilbert’s heart and he half rose to see
the better.
Another lightning stroke streaked the sky.
He recognized Baron Balsamo, covered with dust, who had by the aid of
mysterious intelligence, entered the locked-up Trianon, and was as
invincibly and fatally drawing Andrea to him as a snake may a bird. Not
till within two steps of him did she stop, when he took her hand and she
quivered all over her body.
“Do you see?” he asked.
“Yes,” was her reply, “but you have nearly been the death of me in
bringing me out like this.”
“It cannot be helped,” returned Balsamo: “I am in a whirl, and am ready
to die with the craze upon me.”
“You do indeed suffer,” said she, informed of his state by the contact
of his hand alone.
“Yes, and I come to you for consolation. You alone can save me. Can you
follow me---- ”
“Yes, if you conduct me with your mind.”
“Come!”
“Ah,” said Andrea, “we are in Paris--a street lit by a single lamp--we
enter a house--we go up to the wall which opens to let us pass through.
We are in so strange a chamber, with no doors and the windows are
barred. How greatly in disorder is everything!”
“But it is empty? where is the person who was there last?”
“Give me some object of hers that I may be in touch.”
“This is a lock of her hair.”
Andrea laid the hair on her bosom.
“Oh, I know this woman, whom I have seen before--she is fleeing into the
city.”
“Yes; but what was she doing these two hours before? Trace back.”
“Wait: she is lying on a sofa with a cut in the breast. She wakes from a
sleep, and seeks round her. Taking a handkerchief she ties it to the
window bars. Come down, poor woman! She weeps, she is in distress, she
wrings her arms--ah! she is looking for a corner of the wall on which to
dash out her brains. She springs towards the chimney-place where two
lion heads in marble are embossed. On one of them she would beat out her
brains when she sees a spot of blood on the lion’s eye. Blood, and yet
she had not struck it?”
“It is mine,” said the mesmerist.
“Yes, yours. You cut your fingers with a dagger, the dagger with which
she stabbed herself and you tried to get it away from her. Your bleeding
fingers pressed the lion’s head.”
“It is true: how did she get out?”
“I see her examine the blood, reflect, and then lay her finger where
yours was pressed. Oh, the lion’s head gives way--it is a spring which
works: the chimney-plate opens.”
“Cursed imprudence of mine,” groaned the conspirator: “unhappy madman! I
have betrayed myself through love. But she has gone out and flees?”
“The poor thing must be pardoned, she is so distressed.”
“Whither goes she, Andrea? follow, follow, I will it!”
“She stops in a room where are armor and furs: a safe is open but a
casket usually kept in it is now on a table: she knows it again. She
takes it.”
“What is in it?”
“Your papers. It is covered with blue velvet and studded with silver,
the lock and bands are of the same metal.”
“Ha! was it she took the casket?” cried Balsamo, stamping his foot.
“Yes, she. Going down the stairs to the anteroom, she opens the door,
draws the chain undoing the street door and is out in the street.”
“It is late?”
“It is nighttime. Once out, she runs like a mad thing up on the main
street towards the Bastile. She knocks up against passengers and
questions.”
“Lose not a word--what does she say?”
“She asks a man clad in black where she can find the Chief of Police.”
“So it was not a vain threat of hers. What does she do?”
“Having the address, she retraces her steps to cross a large square----
”
“Royale Place--it is the right road. Read her intention.”
“Run, run quick! she is going to denounce you--if she arrives at
Criminal Lieutenant Sartine’ before you, you are lost!”
Balsamo uttered a terrible yell, sprang into the hedges, burst a small
door, and got upon the open ground. There an Arab horse was waiting, on
which he leaped at a bound. It started off like an arrow towards Paris.
Andrea stood mute, pale, and cold. But as though the magnetiser carried
life away with him, she collapsed and fell. In his eagerness to overtake
Lorenza, Balsamo had forgotten to arouse Andrea from the mesmeric sleep.
She had barely touched the ground before Gilbert leaped out with the
vigor and agility of the tiger. He seized her in his arms and without
feeling what a burden he had undertaken, he carried her back to the room
which she had left on the call of Balsamo.
All the doors had been left open by the girl, and the candle was still
burning.
As he stumbled against the sofa when he blundered in, he naturally
placed her upon it. All became enfevered in him, though the lifeless
body was cold. His nerves shivered and his blood burned.
Yet his first idea was pure and chaste: it was to restore consciousness
to this beautiful statue. He sprinkled her face with water from the
decanter.
But at this period, as his trembling hand was encircling the narrow neck
of the crystal bottle, he heard a firm but light step make the stairs of
wood and brick squeak on the way to the chamber.
It could not be Nicole who was on the way with Beausire or Balsamo who
was galloping to Paris.
Whoever it was, Gilbert would be caught and expelled from the palace.
He fully comprehended that he was out of his place here. He blew out
the candle and dashed into Nicole’s room, timing his movement as the
thunder boomed in the heavens.
Through its glazed door he could see into the room he quitted and the
anteroom.
In this latter burnt a night-light on a small table. Gilbert would have
put that out also if he had time, but the steps creaked now on the
landing. A man appeared on the sill, timidly glided through the
antechamber, and shut the door which he bolted.
Gilbert held his breath, glued his face to the glass and listened with
all his might.
The storm growled solemnly in the skies, large raindrops spattered on
the windows, and in the corridor, an unfastened shutter banged
sinisterly against the wall from time to time.
But the tumult of nature, these exterior sounds, however alarming, were
nothing to Gilbert: all his thought, mind and being were concentrated in
his gaze, fastened on this man.
Passing within two paces, this intruder walked into the other room.
Gilbert saw him grope his way up to the bed, and make a gesture of
surprise at finding it untenanted. He almost knocked the candle off the
table with his elbow; but it fell on the table where the glass save-all
jingled on the marble top.
“Nicole,” the stranger called twice, in a guarded voice.
“Why, Nicole?” muttered Gilbert. “Why does this man call on Nicole when
he ought to address her mistress?”
No voice replying, the man picked up the candle and went on tiptoe to
light it at the night-lamp.
Then it was that Gilbert’s attention was so concentrated on this strange
night visitor that his eyes would have pierced a wall.
Suddenly he started and drew back a step although he was in concealment.
By the light of the two flames he had recognized in the man holding the
candle--the King! All was clear to him: the flight of Nicole, the money
counted down between her and Beausire, and all the dark plot of
Richelieu and Taverney of which Andrea was the object.
He understood why the King should call upon Nicole, the complaisant
female Judas who had sold her mistress.
At the thought of what the royal villain had come to commit in this
room, the blood rushing to the young man’s head blinded him.
He meant to call out; but the reflection that this was the Lord’s
anointed, the being still full of awe as the King of France--that froze
the tongue of Gilbert to his mouth-roof.
Meanwhile, Louis XV. entered the room once more, bearing the light. He
perceived Andrea, in the white muslin wrapper, with her head thrown back
on the sofa pillow, with one foot on another cushion and the other, cold
and stiff, out of the slipper, on the carpet.
At this sight the King smiled. The candle lit up this evil smile; but
almost instantly a smile as sinister lighted up Andrea’s face.
Louis uttered some words, probably of love; and placing the light on the
table, he cast a glance out at the enflamed sky, before kneeling to the
girl, whose hand he kissed.
This was so chilly that he took it between both his to warm it, and with
his other arm enclasping the soft and so beautiful body, he bent over to
murmur some of the loving nonsense fitted for sleeping maids. His face
was so close to hers that it touched it.
Gilbert felt in his pocket for a knife with a long blade which he used
in pruning trees.
The face was as cold as the hand, which made the royal lover rise; his
eyes wandered to the Cinderella foot, which he took hold of--it was as
cold as the hand and the cheek. He shuddered for all seemed a marble
statue.
Gilbert gritted his teeth and opened the knife, as he beheld so much
beauty and regarded the royal threat as a robbery intended on him.
But the King dropped the foot as he had the hand. Surprised at the sleep
which he had thought to be feigned in prudery by a coquet, he prepared
to learn the nature of this insensibility.
Gilbert crept half way out of the doorway, with set teeth, glittering
eye and the knife bared in his grip to stab the King.
Suddenly a frightful flash of lightning lit up Andrea’s face with a
vivid glare of violet and sulphur light while the thunder made every
article of furniture dance in the room. Frightened by her pallor,
immobility and silence, Louis XV. recoiled, muttering:
“Truly the girl is dead!”
The idea of having wooed a corpse sent a shudder through his veins. He
took up the candle and looked at Andrea by its flickering flame. Seeing
the brown-circled eyes, the violet lips, the disheveled tresses, the
throat which no breath raised, he uttered a shriek, let the candlestick
fall, and staggered out through the antechamber like a drunken man,
knocking against the wainscotting in his alarm.
Knife still in hand, Gilbert came out of his covert. He advanced to the
room door and for a space contemplated the lovely young maid still in
the profound sleep.
The candle smouldering on the floor lit up the delicate foot and the
pure lines above it of the adorable creature.
Gilbert trod on the wick and in sudden obscurity was blotted out the
dreadful smile which was curling his lips.
“Andrea,” he muttered, “I swore that you should not escape me the third
time that you fell into my hands as you did the other two. Andrea, a
terrible end was needed to the romance which you mocked at me for
composing!”
With extended arms he walked towards the sofa where the girl was still
cold, motionless and deprived of all feeling.