Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  "You have in America associated with innovators, and your writings have propagated their principles."

  "Yes, Sire; and I forgot this claim to the gratitude of kings and men."

  The king was silent.

  "Sire," continued Gilbert, "now my life is known to you; I have neither offended nor wounded any one,—neither a beggar nor a queen,—and I come to ask your Majesty why I have been punished."

  "I shall speak to the queen, Monsieur Gilbert; but do you think the lettre de cachet comes directly from the queen?"

  "I do not say that, Sire; I even think the queen merely recommended it."

  "Ah! you see," cried Louis, quite joyfully.

  "Yes; but you are aware, Sire, that what a queen recommends, she commands."

  "At whose request was the lettre de cachet granted? May I see it?"

  "Yes, Sire," said Gilbert. "Look at it."

  And he presented him the entry in the jail-book.

  "The Countess de Charny!" exclaimed the king. "How, it is she who caused your arrest? But what can you have done to this poor Charny?"

  "I did not even know that lady by name this morning, Sire."

  Louis passed his hand over his brow.

  "Charny," murmured he, "Charny,—sweetness, virtue, chastity itself."

  "You will see, Sire," said Gilbert, laughing, "that I was imprisoned in the Bastille at the request of the three theological virtues!"

  "Oh, I will clear this up at once!" said the king.

  And he pulled a bell.

  An usher appeared.

  "See if the Countess de Charny is with the queen," said Louis.

  "Sire," said the usher, "the countess has this instant crossed the gallery; she is about stepping into her coach."

  "Run after her," said Louis, eagerly, "and request her to come to my cabinet on an affair of importance."

  Then, turning towards Gilbert:—

  "Is that what you desire, sir?" said he.

  "Yes, Sire," answered Gilbert, "and I return a thousand thanks to your Majesty."

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  Chapter XXIII

  The Countess de Charny

  GILBERT, on hearing the order to send for Madame de Charny, had retired into the recess of a window.

  As to the king, he was walking up and down in the room called the Œil-de-Bœuf, preoccupied at times with public affairs, at others with the pertinacity of this Gilbert, by whom, in spite of himself, he felt strangely influenced, and at a moment when nothing ought to have interested him but the affairs of Paris.

  Suddenly the door of the cabinet was thrown open, the usher announced the Countess de Charny, and Gilbert, through the closed curtains, could perceive a woman, whose flowing and silken robes grazed the half-opened door.

  This lady was dressed, according to the fashion of the times, in a déshabille of gray silk, striped with a variety of colors, with a petticoat of the same stuff, and a sort of shawl, which, after being crossed over the chest, was fastened behind her waist, and showed to great advantage the beauties of a full and well-developed bosom. A small bonnet, coquettishly fixed on the summit of a high head-dress, high-heeled shoes, which showed the exquisite shape of a beautiful instep, a small cane twirled by the gloved fingers of a slender and delicate hand, with tapering and perfectly aristocratic fingers: such was the person so anxiously expected by Gilbert.

  The king stepped forward to meet her.

  "You were just going out, Countess, I was told."

  "In truth, Sire," replied the countess, "I was on the point of stepping into my carriage when I received your Majesty's order."

  On hearing this firm-toned voice, the ears of Gilbert were suddenly assailed as with a rushing sound. The blood instantly suffused his cheeks, and a thousand shudders appeared to thrill through his whole system.

  Despite himself, he made a step from the curtain, behind which he had secreted himself.

  "She!" stammered he; "she—Andrée—"

  "Madame," continued the king, who, as well as the countess, had not observed the emotion of Gilbert, who was hidden in the shade, "I requested you to visit me, for the purpose of obtaining some information from you."

  "I am ready to comply with your Majesty's wishes."

  The king leaned in the direction of Gilbert as if to warn him.

  The latter, perceiving that the moment to show himself had not yet arrived, gradually withdrew himself again behind the curtain.

  "Madame," said the king, "it is now eight or ten days since a warrant of imprisonment was requested of Monsieur de Necker—"

  Gilbert, through the almost imperceptible opening between the curtains, fastened his gaze upon Andrée. The young woman was pale, feverish, and anxious, and appeared borne down by the weight of a secret prepossession, for which even she herself could not account.

  "You hear me, do you not, Countess?" asked Louis XVI., seeing that Madame de Charny hesitated before answering.

  "Yes, Sire."

  "Well, do you understand me, and can you answer my question?"

  "I am endeavoring to remember," said Andrée.

  "Permit me to assist your memory, Countess. The warrant of imprisonment was demanded by you, and the demand was countersigned by the queen."

  The countess, instead of answering, appeared to abandon herself more and more to that feverish abstraction which seemed to lead her beyond the limits of real life.

  "But answer me, then, Madame," said the king, who began to grow impatient.

  "It is true," said she, trembling, "it is true. I wrote the letter, and her Majesty, the queen, countersigned it."

  "Then," asked Louis, "tell me the crime which had been committed by the person against whom such a document was required."

  "Sire," said Andrée, "I cannot tell you what crime he had committed; but what I can tell you is, that the crime was great."

  "Oh, can you not confide that even to me?"

  "No, Sire."

  "Not to the king?"

  "No. I hope your Majesty will forgive me; but I cannot."

  "Then you shall tell it to him in person, Madame," said the king;" for what you have refused to King Louis XVI., you cannot refuse to Doctor Gilbert."

  "To Doctor Gilbert!" exclaimed Andrée. "Great God! where is he then?"

  The king stepped aside to allow Gilbert to advance; the curtains were thrown apart, and the doctor appeared, almost as pale as Andrée.

  "Here he is, Madame," said he.

  At the sight of Gilbert, the countess staggered. Her limbs shook beneath her. She fell backwards, as does a person who is about to faint, and only maintained a standing position with the assistance of an arm-chair, on which she leaned in the sorrowful, motionless, and almost unconscious attitude of Eurydice at the moment when the serpent's venom reaches her heart.

  "Madame," said Gilbert, bowing to her with mock politeness, "allow me to repeat the question which has just been put to you by his Majesty."

  The lips of Andrée could be seen to move, but no sound issued from them.

  "What offence had I committed, Madame, that an order from you should have caused me to be thrown into a loathsome dungeon?"

  On hearing this voice, Andrée bounded as if she had felt the tearing asunder of the fibres of her heart.

  Then, on a sudden, casting upon Gilbert an icy look, like that of a serpent:—

  "Me, sir?" said she. "I do not know you."

  But while she pronounced these words, Gilbert, on his side, had looked at her with such intentness, he had loaded the brightness of his gaze with so much invincible audacity, that the countess cast down her eyes, completely overpowered.

  "Countess," said the king, in a mild tone of reproach, "see where the abuse of a signature may lead you. Here is a gentleman whom you do not know, and you yourself confess it; a man who is a great practitioner, a profound physician, a man who can be reproached for nothing."

  Andrée raised her head, and almost petrified Gilbert by her contemptuous look.

  He, h
owever, remained calm and proud.

  "I say, then," continued the king, "that having no cause for complaint against Monsieur Gilbert, by thus persecuting him instead of another, it is on the head of an innocent man that punishment has fallen. Countess, this is wrong."

  "Sire," said Andrée.

  "Ah!" interrupted the king, who already trembled for fear of disobliging the favorite of his wife, "I know that you are kind-hearted, and that if you have punished some one through hatred, that person must have deserved it; but you see that it will be necessary, in future, to avoid the recurrence of such mistakes."

  Then, turning towards Gilbert:—

  "You see, Doctor, it is the fault of the times, rather than that of men. We are born in corruption, and we die in it; but we will endeavor at least to ameliorate the condition of posterity, and you will, I trust, assist me in this work, Doctor Gilbert."

  And Louis ceased speaking, thinking he had said enough to satisfy both parties.

  Poor king! had he pronounced those words before the National Assembly, not only would he have been applauded, but, moreover, he would have seen them reproduced in all the court journals.

  But the two unrelenting enemies present at this interview appreciated but little his conciliating philosophy.

  "With your Majesty's permission," said Gilbert, "I will request the countess to repeat what she has already stated, namely, that she does not know me."

  "Countess," said the king, "will you do what the doctor requests of you?"

  "I do not know Doctor Gilbert," repeated Andrée in a firm voice.

  "But you know another Gilbert, my namesake,—the Gilbert whose crime has been visited on me."

  "Oh," said Andrée, "I know that person, and I consider him an infamous wretch."

  "Sire, it would not become me to interrogate the countess," said Gilbert; "but deign to ask her of what that infamous man has been guilty."

  "Countess, you cannot refuse acceding to so just a request."

  "What he has done" said Andrée. "Doubtless the queen knew of what crime he had been guilty, since with her own hand she authorized the letter by means of which I applied for his arrest."

  "But," said the king, "it is not quite sufficient that the queen should be convinced; it is necessary that I too should be convinced. The queen is the queen, but I am the king."

  "Well then, Sire, the Gilbert mentioned in the warrant is a man who, sixteen years ago, committed a most fearful crime."

  "Will your Majesty ask the countess how old that man is at the present day?"

  The king repeated the question.

  "From thirty to thirty-two," said Andrée.

  "Sire," rejoined Gilbert, "if the crime was committed sixteen years ago, it was not committed by a man, but by a child; and if, during these sixteen years, the man has deplored the crime committed by the child, does not that man deserve some little leniency?"

  "But, sir," asked the king, "you then know the Gilbert in question?"

  "I know him, Sire," said Gilbert.

  "And has he committed no other fault except this one of his early youth?"

  "I do not know that since the day on which he committed—I will not say that fault, Sire, for I am less indulgent than you—but that crime, I do not know that any one in this world has aught to reproach him with."

  "No, unless it is having dipped his pen in poison, and having composed the most odious libels," cried Andrée.

  "Sire, please to ask the countess," said Gilbert, "if the real object of the arrest of this Gilbert was not to afford every facility to his enemies, or rather to his enemy, to obtain possession of a certain casket containing certain papers, which might have compromised a great lady, a lady of the court."

  Andrée trembled from head to foot.

  "Monsieur," faltered she.

  "Countess, what is this casket?" asked the king, who had perceived the trembling and the pallor of the countess.

  "Ah, Madame," cried Gilbert, feeling that he was gaining the mastery, "no tergiversation,—no subterfuge. There have been misstatements enough on both sides. I am the Gilbert who committed the crime; I am the Gilbert of the libels; I am the Gilbert of the casket. You—you are the great lady,—the lady of the court. I call upon the King to be our judge; accept him, and we will tell to this judge,—to the King—to God,—we will tell all that has occurred between us; and the King shall decide, while we await the judgment of God."

  "Say what you will, sir," rejoined the Countess, "but I can say nothing; I do not know you."

  "And you know nothing of this casket either?"

  The countess convulsively closed her hands and bit her pale lips till they bled.

  "No," said she, "I know no more of it than I do of you."

  But the effort she made to pronounce these words was such, that her body trembled as does a statue on its pedestal during an earthquake.

  "Madame, beware," said Gilbert. "I am, as you can hardly have forgotten, the pupil of a man called Joseph Balsamo. The power which he possessed over you, he has transmitted to me. For the last time, will you answer the question I put to you: My casket?"

  "No," cried the countess, a prey to the most indescribable agitation, and making a movement to rush out of the room; "no, no, no!"

  "Well, then," said Gilbert, in his turn becoming pale, and raising his threatening arm; "well then! thou iron nature, thou heart of adamant, bend, burst, and break beneath the irresistible pressure of my will. Wilt thou not speak, Andrée?"

  "No, no," cried the countess; "help me Sire, help me!"

  "Thou shalt speak," cried Gilbert; "and no one, were he the King, or even God himself, can withdraw thee from my power. Thou shalt speak, then; thou shalt reveal thy whole soul to the witness of this solemn scene; and all that is contained in the recesses of thy conscience,—all that which God alone can read in the depths of the deepest souls, you shall know, Sire, from the lips of her who refuses to reveal them. Sleep, Countess de Charny, sleep and speak. I will it!"

  Hardly were the words pronounced, when the Countess stopped short in the midst of a suppressed cry, stretched forth her arms, and seeking support for her trembling limbs, fell, as if imploring a refuge, into the arms of the king, who, trembling himself, seated her upon an arm-chair.

  "Oh!" said Louis XVI., "I have heard of things of this nature, but I never before witnessed anything to equal it. Is it not to a magnetic sleep that she has just succumbed, sir?"

  "Yes, Sire; take the hand of the countess, and ask her why she caused me to be arrested," said Gilbert, as if the right to command belonged to him alone.

  Louis XVI., quite thunderstruck by this marvellous scene, took two steps backwards to convince himself that he was not himself asleep, and that what was taking place before him was not a dream; then, like a mathematician who is interested in some new solution, he approached nearer to the countess, whose hand he took in his.

  "Let us see, Countess," said he; "it was then you who caused the arrest of Doctor Gilbert?"

  Still, although asleep, the countess made one last effort, snatched her hand from that of the king, and gathering up all her strength:—

  "No," cried she, "I will not speak."

  The king looked at Gilbert, as if to ask him which of the two would overcome the other,—his will or that of Andrée.

  Gilbert smiled.

  "You will not speak?" said he.

  And, his eyes fixed upon the sleeping Andrée, he advanced a step towards the arm-chair.

  Andrée shuddered.

  "Will you not speak?" added he, taking a second step, which diminished the distance that separated him from the countess.

  Every muscle of Andrée's frame became rigid in a supreme effort of resistance.

  "Ah, you will not, speak, then" said he, taking a third stride, which placed him at the side of Andrée, over whose head he placed his outstretched hand; "ah, you will not speak?"

  Andrée was writhing in the most fearful convulsions.

  "But take care! take care!" c
ried Louis XVI., "you will kill her!"

  "Fear nothing, Sire; it is with the soul alone that I have to contend; the soul is struggling, but it will yield."

  Then, lowering his hand:—

  "Speak!" said he.

  Andrée extended her arms, and made an effort to breathe, as if she had been under the pressure of a pneumatic machine.

  "Speak!" repeated Gilbert, lowering his hand still more.

  All the muscles of the young woman's body seemed about to burst. A fringe of froth appeared upon her lips, and a commencement of epilepsy convulsed her from head to foot.

  "Doctor! Doctor!" said the king, "take care!"

  But he, without noticing the king, lowered his hand a third time, and touching the top of the countess's head with the palm of that hand:—

  "Speak!" said he; "it is my will."

  Andrée, on feeling the touch of that hand, heaved a sigh, her arms fell motionless to her side, her head, which had been thrown backwards, fell forward upon her breast, and a copious flood of tears oozed through her closed eyelids.

  "My God! my God! my God!" faltered she.

  "Invoke the Lord,—be it so; he who operates in the name of God does not fear God."

  "Oh!" said the countess, "how I hate you!"

  "Abhor me, if you will, but speak!"

  "Sire, Sire," exclaimed Andrée, "tell him that he consumes me, that he devours me, that he kills me!"

  "Speak!" said Gilbert.

  Then he made a sign to the king that he might interrogate her.

  "So that, Countess," said the king, again taking her hand, "he whom you wished to arrest, and whom you caused to be arrested, was really the doctor himself?"