Back Aa

Marie Antoinette Romances, Vol 1: Balsamo, The Magician

<h2>CHAPTER XXX. OLD PATRICIANS AND NEW.</h2> 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. <hr style="width:65%;"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.