CHAPTER II. A DEATH-BED
It was at the close of a sultry day that a sick man, wan, pale, andalmost voiceless, sat propped up by pillows, and seeming to drink inwith a sort of effort the faint breeze that entered by an open window.A large bouquet of fresh flowers stood in a vase beside him, and onthe bed itself moss-roses and carnations were scattered, their gorgeoustints terribly in contrast to the sickly pallor of that visage on whichdeath had already placed its stamp. It would have puzzled the wiliestphysiognomist to have read that strange and strongly-marked face;for while the massive head and strong brow, the yet brilliant eye andcontracted eyebrow, denoted energy and daring, there was a faint smile,inexpressibly sad and weary-looking, on the mouth, that seemed tobespeak a heart that had experienced many an emotion, and ended byfinding 'all barren.'
A long, low sigh escaped him as he lay, and in his utter weariness hishands dropped listlessly, one falling over the side of the bed. Thewatchful nurse, who, in the dress of her order as a Sister of Charity,sat nigh, arose and leaned over to regard him.
'No, Constance, not yet,' said he, smiling faintly, and answeringthe unspoken thought that was passing in her mind; 'not yet; but verynear--very near indeed. What hour is it?'
'St. Roch has just chimed half-past seven,' replied she calmly.
'Open the window wider; there is a little air stirring.'
'No; the evening is very still, but it will be fresher by and by.'
'I shall not need it,' said he, more faintly, though with perfect calm.'Before midnight, Constance--before midnight it will be the same tome if it breathed a zephyr or blew a gale: where I am going it will doneither.'
'Oh, Citizen, can I not persuade you to see the Pere Dulaque or the Cureof St. Roch? Your minutes are few here now, and I implore you not towaste them.'
''Tis so that I intend, my worthy friend,' said he calmly. 'Had eitherof these excellent men you mention made the voyage I am now going, Iwould speak to them willingly; but remember, Constance, it is a seawithout a chart.'
'Say not so in the face of that blessed Book----'
'Nay, nay, do not disturb my few moments of calm. How sweet thoseflowers are! How balmy that little air that now stirs the leaves! Oh,what a fair world it is, or rather it might be! Do not sigh so heavily,Constance; remember what I told you yesterday; our belief is like ourloyalty--it is independent of us.'
'Let some holy man at least speak to you.'
'Why should I shock his honest faith? Why should he disturb my peace.Know, woman,' added he, more energetically, 'that I have striven harderto attain this same faith than ever you have done to resist a heresy.I needed it a thousand times more than you; I 'd have done more to gainit--clung closer to it when won too.'
'What did you do?' asked she boldly.
'I read, reflected, pondered years long--disputed, discussed, readmore--inquired wherever I hoped to meet enlightenment.'
'You never prayed,' said she meekly.
'Prayed! How should I--not knowing for what, or to whom?'
An exclamation--almost a cry--escaped the woman, and her lips were seento move rapidly, as if in prayer. The sick man seemed to respect thesentiment of devotion that he could not bring himself to feel, and wassilent. At last he said, in a voice of much sweetness, 'Your patientcare and kindness are not the less dear to me that I ascribe them to asource your humility would reject. I believe in human nature, my goodConstance, though of a verity it has given me strong lessons not to beover-sanguine.'
'Who has had more friends?' began she; but he stopped her short at onceby a contemptuous gesture with his hand, while he said--
'Men are your friends in life as they are your companions on ajourney--so long as your road lies in the same direction they willtravel with you. To bear with your infirmities, to take count of yourtrials, and make allowance for your hardships; to find out what of goodthere is in you, and teach you to fertilise it for yourself; to discernthe soil of your nature, expel its weeds, and still to be hopeful--thisis friendship. But it never comes from a brother man; it is a womanalone can render it. Who is it that knocks there?' asked he quickly.
She went to the door and speedily returned with the answer--
'It is the same youth who was here yesterday, and refused to give hisname. He is still most urgent in his demand to see you.'
'Does he know what he asks--that I am on the eve of a long journey, andmust needs have my thoughts engaged about the road before me?'
'I told him you were very ill--very ill indeed; that even your dearestfriends only saw you for a few minutes at a time; but he persisted inasserting that if you knew he was there, you would surely see him.'
'Let his perseverance have its reward. Tell him to come in.'
The sister returned to the door, and after a whispered word to thestranger, enforcing caution in his interview, admitted him, and pointingto the bed where the sick man lay, she retired.
If the features and gestures of the stranger, as he moved silentlyacross the room, denoted the delicacy of a certain refinement, his dressbespoke great poverty; his clothes were ragged, his shoes in tatters,and even the red woollen cap which he had just removed from his head waspatched in several places.
The sick man motioned to him to stand where the light would fall uponhim strongly; and then, having stared steadfastly at him for severalminutes, he sighed drearily, and said, 'What have you with me?'
'Don't you remember me, then, Signor Gabriel?' asked the young man, in atone of deep agitation. 'Don't you remember Fitzgerald?'
'The boy of the Maremma--the Garde du Corps--the favourite ofthe Queen--the postilion on the flight to Va-rennes--the secretletter-carrier to the Temple----'
'Speak lower, Monsieur! speak lower, I beseech you,' interposed theother. 'If I were betrayed, my life is not worth an hour's purchase.'
'And is it worth preserving in such a garb as that? I thought you hadbeen an apter scholar, Gerald, and that ere this you had found your wayto fortune. The Prince de Conde wrote me that you were his trustiestagent.'
'And it is on a mission from him that I am here this day. I have beenwaiting for weeks long to see and speak with you. I knew that you wereill, and could find no means to approach you.'
'You come too late, my friend--too late,' said Mirabeau, sighing:'Royalist, Girondin, Bourbon, or the Mountain, they are all illusionsnow!'
'The great principles of justice are not an illusion, sir; the idea ofRight is immutable and immortal!'
'I know of nothing that does not change and die,' said Mirabeau gravely;then added, 'But what would you with me?'
'I have not courage to disturb your suffering sick-bed with cares youcan no longer feel. I had not imagined I should have found you so ill asthis.'
'Sick unto death--if you can tell me what death means,' said the otherwith a strange smile.
'They who sent me,' resumed Gerald, not heeding his last remark,'believed you in all the vigour of health as of intellect. They havewatched with almost breathless interest the glorious conflict you havelong maintained against the men of anarchy and the guillotine; theyhave recognised in you the one sole man, of all the nation, who can saveFrance----'
The sick man smiled sadly, and laying his wasted fingers on Gerald'sarm, said, 'It is not to be done!'
'Do you mean, sir, that it is the will of the great Providence whorules us that this mighty people should sink under the tyranny of a fewbloodthirsty wretches?'
'I spoke not of France; I spoke of the Monarchy, said Mirabeau. 'Lookat those flowers there: in a few hours hence they will have lost theirodour and their colour. Now, all your memory--be it ever so good--willnot replace these to your senses. Go tell your master that his hourhas struck. Monarchy was once a Faith; it will henceforth be but aSuperstition.'
'And is a just right like this to be abandoned?'
'No. The stranger may place them on the throne they have lost; and ifthey be wise enough to repay the service with ingratitude, a few moreyears of this mock rule may be eked out.'
'You came to me once before--I remember the incident well; I was livingin the Avenue aux Abois when you summoned me to a meeting at St. Cloud.The Monarchy might have been saved even then. It was late, but not toolate. I advised a ministry of such materials as the people might trustand the court corrupt--men of low origin, violent, exacting, but venal.Six months of such rule would have sent France back to all her ancienttraditions, and the king been more popular than ever. But they would nothear me: they talked of walking in the high path of duty; and it hasled some to the scaffold, and the rest to exile! But what concern haveI with these things? Do you know, young man, that all your king couldpromise, all the mighty people themselves could bestow upon me as I liehere, could not equal the pleasure that moss-rose yields me, nor theecstasy of delight I feel when a gentle wind blows fresh upon my cheek.Say it out, sir; say out what that supercilious smile implies,' criedhe, his eyes lighting up with all their ancient fire. 'Tell me at onceit was Mirabeau the voluptuary that spoke there! Ay, and I 'll notgainsay you! If to exult in the perfection of the senses nature hasgiven me; to drink in with ecstasy what others imbibe in apathy; to feela godlike enjoyment where less keenly gifted temperaments had scarcelyknown a pleasure--if this is to be a voluptuary, I am one.'
'But why, with powers like yours, limit your enjoyment to mere sensualpleasures? Why not taste the higher and purer delight of succouringmisfortune and defending the powerless?'
'I _did_ try it,' said the sick man, sighing. 'I essayed to discoverthe pleasures of what you would call morality. I was generous; I forgaveinjuries; I pardoned ingratitude; I aided struggling misery; but thereward was not forthcoming;--these things gave me no happiness.'
'No happiness!'
'None. I tried to forget I was a dupe; I did my best to believe myselfa benefactor of my species; I stopped my ear against any praises fromthose I had befriended; but nothing in my heart responded to theirjoy. I was not happier. Remember, boy,' cried he, 'that even your ownmoralists only promise the recompense for virtue in another world. Ilooked for smaller profits and prompter payment. The mockery of hissmile, as he spoke, seemed to wound Gerald; for, as he turned away hishead, a deep flush covered his face. 'Forgive me,' said the sick man; 'Iought to have remembered that your early training was derived from thoseworthy men, the Jesuit Fathers; and if I cannot participate in yourconsolations, I would not insult your convictions, Then, raising himselfon one arm, he added, with a stronger effort: 'Your mission to me is afailure, Fitzgerald. I cannot aid your cause: he whose trembling handcannot carry the glass of water to his lips can scarce replace a fallendynasty. I will not even deceive you by saying what, if health andstrength were mine, I might do--perhaps I do not know it myself. Goback and tell your Prince that he and his must wait--wait like wisephysicians--till nature bring the crisis of the malady; that all theycould do now would but hurt the cause they mean to serve. When Franceneeds her princes, she will seek them even out of exile. Let them bewarehow they destroy the prestige of their high estate by accepting equalitymeanwhile. They are the priests of a religion, and can never descend tothe charges of the laity. As for you, yourself, it is well that I haveseen you; I have long desired to speak to you of your own fortunes. Ihad written to Alfieri about you, and his answer--to _you_ an importantdocument--is in that box. You will find the key yonder on the ring.'
As Gerald rose to obey this direction, Mirabeau fell back exhausted onthe bed, a clammy sweat breaking out over his cheeks and forehead. Thecry which unconsciously escaped the youth, quickly summoned the 'sister'to the bedside.
'This is death,' said she, in the calm, solemn voice of one long inuredto such scenes. She tried to make him swallow a teaspoonful of somerestorative, but the liquid dropped over his lips, and fell upon hischin. 'Death--and what a death!' muttered the sister, half to herself.
'See--see--he is coming back to himself,' whispered Gerald; 'his eyesare opening, and his lips move,' while a faint effort of the musclesaround the mouth seemed to essay a smile.
Again she moistened his lips with the cordial, and this time he was ableto swallow some drops of it. He made a slight attempt to speak, and asthe sister bent her ear to his lips, he whispered faintly, 'Tell him tocome back--tomorrow--to-morrow!'
She repeated the words to Gerald, who, feeling that his presence anylonger there might be hurtful, slowly and silently stepped from theroom, and descended to the street.
Late as it was, a considerable crowd was assembled before the door infront of the house; their attitude of silent and respectful anxietyshowed the deep interest felt in the sick man's state; and although noname was spoken, the frequent recurrence of the words 'he' and 'his'evinced how absorbingly all thoughts were concentrated upon oneindividual. Nor was it only of one class in society the crowd wascomposed. Mirabeau's admirers and followers were of every rank andevery section of politicians; and, strangely enough, men whose publicanimosities had set them widely apart from each other were here seenexchanging their last tidings of the sick-room, and alternating andbalancing their hopes and fears of his condition.
'Jostinard calls the malady cerebral absorption,' said one, 'as thoughintense application had produced an organic change.'
'Lessieux holds that the disease was produced by those mercurial bathshe used to take to stimulate him on occasions of great public display,'said another.
'There is reason to believe it a family complaint of some sort,' brokein--a third; 'the Bailli de Mirabeau sank under pure exhaustion, as ifthe machine had actually worn out.'
'_Pardie!_' cried out a rough-looking man in a working dress; 'it ishard that we cannot repair him with the strong materials the uselessfellows are made of; there are full fifty in the Assembly we could givefor one like _him_.'
'You talk of maladies,' broke in a loud, full voice, 'and I tell youthat the Citizen Riquetti is dying of poison--ay, start, or murmur ifyou will--I repeat it, of poison. Do we not all know how his power isfeared, and his eloquence dreaded? Are we strangers to those who hatethis great and good man?'
'Great and good he is,' murmured another; 'when shall we see his equal?'
'See, here is one who has been lately with him; let us learn his news.'
This speech was uttered by a poorly-clad man, with a red cap on hishead, as Gerald was endeavouring to pierce the crowd.
'Who is the citizen who has this privilege of speaking with GabrielRiquetti?' said Cabrot, an over-dressed man, who stood the centre of agroup of talkers.
Without paying any attention to this summons, Gerald tried to pursue hisway and pass on; but several already barred the passage, and seemed toinsist, as on a right, to hear the last account of the sick man. For amoment a haughty impulse to refuse all information thus demanded seemedto sway Gerald; then, suddenly changing his resolution, he calmlyanswered that Mirabeau appeared to him so ill as to preclude all hope ofrecovery, and that his state portended but few hours of life.
'Ask him who he himself is?'--'Why and how he came there?'--'Whatmedicine is Riquetti taking?'--'Who administers it?'--'Let this man givean account of himself!' Such, and such like, were the cries that nowresounded on all sides, and Gerald saw himself at once surrounded by amob, whose demands were uttered in no doubtful tone.
'The Citizen Riquetti is one whose life is dear to the Republic,' brokein Cabrot; 'all Frenchmen have a right to investigate whatever affectsthat life. Some aver that he is the victim of assassination----'
'I say, and will maintain it, broke in the man who had made thisassertion before; 'they have given him some stuff that causes a gradualdecay.'
'Let this man declare himself. Who are you, Citizen, and whence?'asked another, confronting Fitzgerald. 'What business came you here totransact with the Citizen Riquetti?'
'Have I asked _you_, or _you_ or _you_,' said Gerald, turning proudlyfrom o
ne to the other of those around him, 'of your private affairs?Have I dared to interrogate _you_ as to who you are, whence you came,whither you go? and by what presumption do you take this liberty with_me_?'
'By that which a care of the public safety imposes,' said Cabrot. 'AsCommissary of the fifth "arrondissement," I demand this citizen's name.'
'You are right to be boastful of your liberty!' said Gerald insolently,'when a man cannot walk the streets, nor even visit a dying friend,without submitting himself to the treatment of a criminal.'
'He a friend of Gabriel Riquetti!' burst in Cabrot. 'Look, I beseechyou, at the appearance of the man who gives himself this title.'
'So, then, it is to my humble dress you object. Citizens, this speakswell for your fraternity and equality.'
'You shall not evade a reckoning with us in this wise, said Cabrot. 'Letus take him to the Corps du Garde, citizens.'
'Ay! away with him to the Corps du Garde!' cried several together.
Gerald became suddenly struck by the rashness of his momentary loss oftemper, and quietly said, 'I'll not give you such trouble, citizens.What is it you wish to hear?'
'Your compliance comes too late,' said Cabrot; 'we will do the thing inorder; off with us to the Corps du Garde!'
'I appeal to you all, why am I to be subjected to this insult?' askedGerald, addressing the crowd. 'You deliver me to the Commissary, notfor any crime or for any accusation of one; you compel me to speak aboutmatters purely personal--circumstances which I could have no right toextort from any of _you_. Is this fair--is it just--is it decent?'
While he thus pleaded, the crowd was obliged to separate suddenly,and make way for a handsome equipage, which came up at full trot, andstopped before the door of Mirabeau's house; and a murmur ran quicklyaround, 'It is The Gabrielle come to ask after Riquetti'; and Cabrot,forgetting his part of public prosecutor, now approached the window ofthe carriage with an almost servile affectation of courtesy. Had Geraldbeen so disposed, nothing would have been easier for him than to makehis escape in the diversion caused by this new incident, so eager wasthe crowd to press around and catch a glimpse of her whose gloved handnow rested on the door of the carriage.
'She is Riquetti's mistress,' cried one; 'is not she?'
'Not a bit of it. Riquetti declared he would have no other mistress thanFrance; and though she yonder changed her name to Gabrielle to flatterhim, though she has sought and followed him for more than a year, itavails her nothing.'
'Less than nothing I'd call it,' said another, 'since she pays for allthose flowers that come up from the banks of the Var--the rarest rosesand orange buds--just to please him.'
'More than that too; she has paid all his debts--in Paris some sixhundred thousand livres--all for a man who will not look at her.'
'"That is to be a 'veritable' woman!"' said a foppish-looking man, whowas for some time endeavouring to attract the attention of the fairoccupant of the carriage.
Meanwhile, Gerald had pressed his way through the crowd, curious tocatch one look of her whose devotion seemed so romantic.
'You see me in despair--in utter despair, Belle Gabrielle. There was noplace to be had at the Francais last night, and I missed your glorious"Phedre."'
Her reply was inaudible, but the other went on--
'Of course, the effort must have cost you deeply, yet even in thatcounterfeit of another's sorrow who knows if you did not interpolatesome portion of your own grief!'
'Is he better? Can I not see the Sister Constance,' asked she, in a lowand liquid voice.
'He is no better; I believe he is far worse than yesterday. There was ayoung man here this moment who saw him, and whose interview, by the way,gave rise to grave speculation. There he is yonder--a strange-lookingfigure to call himself the friend of Gabriel Riquetti.'
'Who or what is he?' asked she eagerly.
'It is what none of us know, though, indeed, at the moment you came up,we had some thoughts of compelling him to declare. Need I tell you thatthere is grave suspicion of foul play here; many are minded to believethat Mirabeau has been poisoned. See how that fellow continues to stareat you, Gabrielle. Do you know him?'
Step by step, slowly, but with eyes riveted upon the object before him,Gerald had now approached the carriage, and stood within a few yards ofit, his eyeballs staring wildly, his lips apart, and every line of hisface betraying the most intense astonishment. Nor was Gabrielle lessmoved: with her head protruded beyond the carriage-window, and her hairpushed suddenly back by some passing impulse, she gazed wildly at thestranger.
'_Gherardi, Gherardi mio!_' cried she at last. 'Speak, and tell me ifit be you.'
'Marietta, oh, Marietta!' said he, with a sigh, whose heartfelt cadenceseemed eloquent in sorrow.
'Come with me. Come home with me, and you shall hear all, said she, inItalian, answering as it were the accents of his words.
The young man shook his head mournfully in reply, but never spoke.
'I tell you,' cried she, more passionately, 'that you shall hear all. Itis more than I have said to a confessor. Come, come,' and she flung openthe door as she spoke.
'If you but knew how I have longed to see you, Marietta!' whispered he,in broken accents; 'but not thus, oh, not thus!'
'How, then, do you dare to judge me?' cried she, with flashing eyes;'how presume to scoff at _my_ affluence, while _I_ have not dared toreflect upon _your_ poverty? Once, and for the last time, I say, comewith me!'
Without another word he sprang to her side, the door was closed, and thecarriage drove rapidly away, ere the staring crowd could express theiramazement at what they had witnessed.
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 27