CHAPTER IV. SOME OF TIME'S CHANGES
Resisting all Marietta's entreaties to stay and sup with her--resistingblandishments that might have subjugated sterner moralists--Geraldquitted her to seek out his humble lodging in the 'Rue de Marais.' Likeall men who have gained a victory over themselves, he was proud of histriumph, and almost boastfully contrasted his tattered dress and lowlycondition with the splendour he had just left behind him.
'I suppose,' muttered he, 'I too might win success if I could stifle allsense of conscience within me, and be the slave of the vile thing theycall the world. It is what men would call my own fault if I be poor andfriendless--so, assuredly, Mirabeau would say.'
'Mirabeau will not say so any more then,' said a voice close beside himin the dark street.
'Why so?' asked Gerald fiercely.
'Simply because that great moralist is dead.'
Not noticing the half sarcasm of the epithet, Gerald eagerly asked whenthe event occurred.
'I can tell you almost to a minute,' said the other. 'We were justcoming to the close of the third act of the piece "L'Amour le veut,"where I was playing Jostard, when the news came; and the public at oncecalled out, "Drop the curtain."'
As the speaker had just concluded these words, the light of a streetlamp fell full upon his figure, and Gerald beheld a meanly clad butgood-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, whose features were notunfamiliar to him.
'We have met before, sir,' said he.
'It was because I recognised your voice I ventured to address you; youwere a Garde du Corps once?'
'And you?'
'I was once upon a time the Viscount Alfred de Noe,' said the otherlightly. 'It was a part my ancestors performed for some seven or eightcenturies. Now I change my _role_ every night.'
Through all the levity of this remark there was also what savouredof courage, that bold defiance of the turns of fortune which soundedhaughtily.
'I, too, have had my reverses; but not so great as yours,' said Geraldmodestly.
'When a man is killed by a fall, what signifies it if the drop has beenfifty feet or five hundred! _Mon cher_,' said the other, 'you and I wereonce gentlemen--we talked, ate, drank, and dressed as such; we have nowthe _canaille_ life, and the past is scarcely even a dream.'
'It is the present I would call a dream,' said Gerald.
'I 'd do so too if its cursed reality would let me,' said De Noe,laughing, 'or if I could throw off the cast of shop for one brief hour,and feel myself the man I once was.'
'What are you counting? Have you lost anything?' asked Gerald, as theother turned over some pieces of money in his hand, and then hastilysearched pocket after pocket.
'No; I was just seeing if I had wherewithal to ask you to sup with me,and I find that I have.'
'Rather, come and share mine--I live here,' said Gerald, as he pusheda door which lay ajar. 'It's a very humble meal I invite you to partakeof; but we 'll drink to the good time coming.'
'I accept frankly,' said the other, as he followed Gerald up the darkand narrow stairs.
'A bed and a looking-glass, as I live!' exclaimed De Noe, as he enteredthe room. 'What a sybarite! Why, my friend, you outrage the nobleprecepts of our glorious Revolution by these luxurious pretensions--youinsult equality and fraternity together.'
'Let me at least conciliate liberty then,' said Gerald gaily, 'and askyou to feel yourself at home.'
'How am I to call thee, _mon cher?_' said De Noe, assuming the familiarsecond person, which I beg the reader to supply in the remainder of theinterview.
'Gerald Fitzgerald is my name.'
'Le Chevalier Fitzgerald was just becoming a celebrity when they changedthe spectacle. Ah, what a splendid engagement we all had, if we onlyknew how to keep it!'
'The fault was not entirely ours,' protested Gerald.
'Perhaps not. The good public were growing tired of being alwaysspectators; they wanted, besides, to see what was behind the scenes; andthey found the whole machinery even more a sham than they expected, andso they smashed the stage and scattered the actors.'
Gerald had now covered the table with the materials of his frugal meal,and brought forth his last two bottles of Bordeaux, long reserved tocelebrate the first piece of good fortune that might betide him.
'It is easy to see,' cried De Noe, 'that you serve a Prince; your fareis worthy of Royalty, my dear Fitzgerald. If you had supped with me,your meal had been a mess of _haricot_, washed down with the light winesof the "Pays Latin.'"
'And why, or how, do you suspect in whose service I am?' asked Geraldeagerly.
'My dear friend, every man of the emigration is known to the police, andI am one of its agents. I am frank with you, just to show you that youmay be as candid with me. Like you, I came to Paris as a secret agent of"the family." I plotted, and schemed, and intrigued to obtain accessto information. All my reports, however, were discouraging. I had notidings to tell but such as boded ill. I saw the game was up; and I washonest enough or foolish enough to say so. The orgies of the Revolutionwere only beginning, and no one wished to come back to the rigid decencyand decorous propriety of the Monarchy. These were not pleasant thingsto write back; they were less pleasant, too, to read; besides that, aman who spent some three thousand francs a month ought, surely, to havehad something more agreeable to report, and they intimated as much tome. Well, I endeavoured to obey. I frequented certain coteries at theAbbe Clery's; I went of an evening to D'Allonville's; and I even usedto pass a Sunday at St. Germains with old Madame de St. Leon. Ifamiliarised my mind with all the favourite expressions, and filled myletters with the same glowing fallacies that they ever repeated to eachother. This finished me; they called me a knave, and dismissed me. Ihad then to choose between becoming a secret agent of the police, orthrowing myself into the Seine. I took the humbler part, and became aspy. They assigned me the theatres, the small, low "spectacles" of thepopulace, and for this I had to become an actor. It was a vow of povertyI took, my dear Chevalier; but I always hoped I was to rise to a higherorder, which did not enjoin fasts nor disclaim clean linen. Seventeenlong months has this slavery now endured, and during this time have Ihad seventeen hundred temptations to pitch my career to the devil,who invented it, and take the consequences, whatever they were; butsomehow--shall I own it?--the chances and changes of this strange timehave grown to assume to my mind the vicissitudes of a game. Even fromthe humble place I occupied have I seen those that seemed fortune'sfirst favourites ruined, and many a one as poor and needy and friendlessas--as you or myself--rise to eminence, wealth, and power. This thoughthas given such an interest to events that I am reluctant to quit thetable. What depressed me was that I was alone. Our old friends lookedcoldly on me, for I was no longer "of them." Among the others, I knewnot whom to trust, for in my heart of hearts I have no faith in theRevolution. Now I have watched you for months back. I knew your purpose,the places you frequented, the themes that interested you; and I oftensaid to myself, that man "Gerard"--for so we called you in the policeroll--would suit me. He was a Royalist, like me; his sympathies are likemy own, so are his present necessities. I could, besides, give him muchinformation of value to his party. In a word, I wanted you, Fitzgerald,and I felt that if I could not make _my own_ fortune, I could certainlyaid _yours_.'
There are men whose influence upon certain others is like a charm;without any seeming effort--without apparently a care on thesubject--the words sink deep into the heart and carry persuasion withthem. Of these was De Noe. Poor and miserable as he was, the stamp ofgentleman was indelibly on him; and as Gerald sat and listened, theother's opinions and views stole gradually into his mind with a powerscarcely conceivable.
The ranges of his knowledge, too, seemed marvellous. He knew not onlythe theory of each pretender to popular favour, but the names and plansof their opponents. His firm conviction was that Mirabeau not onlycould, but would have saved the monarchy.
'And now?' cried Gerald, eager to hear what he had to predict.
'And now the ca
rds are shuffling for a new deal, Gerald, but thegame will be a stormy one. The men who have convulsed France have notreceived their wages; they are growing hourly more and more impatient,and the end will be they 'll murder the paymasters.'
By a long but not wearisome line of argument he went on to show that theRevolution would consume itself. Out of anarchy and blood men would seekthe deliverance of a dictator, and the real hope of the monarchists wasin making terms with him.
'You will meet no acceptance for those opinions from your friends; theyare too lukewarm for sanguine loyalty; they are, besides, to be the workof time. But think and ponder them, Fitzgerald. Go out to-morrowinto the streets, and count how many heads must fall before men willcondescend to reason; the gaunt and famished faces you will meet arescarcely the guarantees of a long tranquillity. If the Monarchy is everto come back to France, it is the mob must restore it.'
'These are Mirabeau's words,' said Gerald quickly.
'It was a craftier than Mirabeau explained them, though,' broke in DeNoe, 'the shrewd and subtle Maurice de Talleyrand! But let us turnto ourselves and our own fortunes. What are we to do that France maybenefit by our valuable services? How are our grand intelligences toredound to the advantage of the nation?'
'I confess I have no plans. I grow weary of this inglorious life I lead.If there was an army in whose ranks I could fight, I 'd turn a soldier,and care little in what cause.'
'I guess the secret of your recklessness, Gerald; I read it in everyword you speak.'
'How so? What do you mean?'
'You are in love, _mon cher_. These are the promptings of a hopelesspassion.'
'You were never more wrong in your life,' said Gerald, blushing till hisface and forehead were crimson.
'Would you try to deceive a man trained to the subtleties of such a lifeas mine? Do you fancy that a "mouchard" cannot read the thoughts thatmen have scarcely confessed to themselves? It is not their privilege towin confidences, but to extort them; and so, I tell you again, Gerald,you are in love.'
'And again I say, you are mistaken; I have but to remind you of thelife I lead--its cares and duties--to show you how unlikely, if notimpossible, is such an event.'
'Bah!' said the other scoffingly. 'You stand at the door of the opera.As the crowd pours out, a shawled and muffled figure hastily passes toher carriage; she speaks a word or two, and the tones are in your heartfor years after. The diligence drives at daybreak through some countryvillage; a curtain is hastily withdrawn, and a pair of eyes meet yours,in which there is no expression save a pleased surprise; and yet youthink of them in far-away lands, and across seas, as dear remembrances.Something more than these, an impression a little stronger, willoftentimes give the motive to a whole life. You doubt it; well, listento a confession of my own.
'When I first took service under my present masters, they assigned tome, as the sphere of duty, a small and miserable theatre in the cite.When I tell you that the entrance was four sous, you have the measureof its pretensions. What singular destiny brought our strange corpstogether I cannot think; we were of every class and condition of life,and of every shade of temperament and character. There was a Cataloniancondemned for life to the galleys in Spain; a Swiss, who had poisoned awhole family; a monk, whose convent had been burned, and he himself theonly one escaped; a court lady, who had been betrothed to an ambassador;and a gipsy girl, who had exhibited her native dances through all thetowns of Italy. These were but a few of our incongruous elements, andit is with the last of them only I have to deal--the gipsy. Whence shecame, or with whom, I never could learn. I only know that one evening,from some illness of our first actress, we were driven upon our ownresources to amuse the public. Each, after his fashion, deliveredsome specimen of his talents, by repeating some well-known part, someoft-recited speech or song. When it came to her turn to appear, sheevinced no fear or trepidation; she did not even ask a question ofadvice or counsel, but walked boldly on, stood for a second or twocontemplating the dense crowd before her, and then began a strange, wildrhapsody, illustrating the events of the time. She told of the noblesliving in splendour, ignoring the sorrows of the poor, forgetting theirvery existence. She described their life of luxury and pleasure, howthey beguiled their leisure hours with enjoyments. She counterfeitedtheir polished intercourse. She was a duchess; her ragged, tatteredshawl swept the ground as a train, and she curtsied with a grace anddignity the highest might have envied. She presented her daughter tosome great noble: the young girl was asked to sing; and then, takingher guitar, she sang a troubadour melody, and with a touching tendernessthat brought tears over cheeks seared and sorrow-worn. Her aim wasevidently to throw over the haughty existence of a hated class thesoftened light of a home; to show that among that proud order the samesympathies lived and reigned, the same affections grew, the same joysand griefs prevailed. Therein lay the power of vengeance. "They despiseand reject you!" cried she; "they hold themselves apart from you, asbeings of another destiny; of all this fair world contains they will notshare with you, save in the air and sunlight; and yet their passions areyour passions--their hates, loves, and jealousies are all your own. Alltheir wealth teaches no new affection, all their civilisation can stifleno old pang. If you be like them, then, in all these, why not resemblethem in their cruelties? Down with them! down with them!" she cried,"for the brand to burn, and the axe to cleave." She shrieked the wildscream of an incensed populace. The chateau was attacked on everyside--but why do I continue? The terrible roar of the famished crowdbefore her is still in my ears, as she sank dying on the stage, themartyred girl of the people, pouring out her blood for her brethren.
'As the curtain fell I rushed forward to raise her; she was fainting.The emotion was not all unreal. I had seen her a hundred times before;we used to salute each other as we met, and perhaps exchange a word ortwo; and though struck by her uncommon beauty, I only deemed her one ofthose unhappy shreds that hang on the draggled robe of humanity, withoutintellect or mind--of those who are unfortunate without pity; but nowas I lifted her up, and carried her to a seat, I saw before me themarvellous artist--one whose genius could conceive the highest flightsof passion, and who had powers also to portray it. It was some timebefore she came to herself; her faculties seemed to wander in a sort ofdreamy vagueness. She dropped words of Italian too, and muttered strangerhymes to herself. I tried to soothe her and calm her. I told her of theimmense success she had achieved, and that even in that rude audiencethere reigned a fervour of enthusiasm that would have carried them toany excesses. "Poor wretches," muttered she, "who are insensible to realwrongs, and can yet be moved by a mockery of woe."
This was all she said, and turned from me with a gesture of aversion.Half stung by the insult of her manner, half wounded in the instinctsof my class--for it is hard to forget that one was born noble--I stoopeddown and whispered in her ear some bitter words of reproach. She startedlike one bitten by a serpent, and stared at me with wide eyeballs andhalf-opened mouth. I saw my advantage, and used it. I told her thatthose she insulted were incomparably above the base herd she dared toplace above them; that in self-devotion, courage, and single-heartednessthe world had never yet displayed their equals. The perils that othersencountered in pursuit of vengeance or plunder were dared by them in theassertion of a noble cause and to avenge a glorious martyrdom. With afierce look she scanned my features for above a minute, and then said,"I know it, and hate them for it." You might imagine that such a speechso uttered had made her odious to my eyes for ever; and yet, Gerald,from that very moment my heart was all her own. Some would explain thisby saying we live in times when every human sentiment is inverted; when,having confounded right and wrong, made peace seem death, and anarchy ablessing, that men are fascinated by what should repel, and deterredby what should attract them. There may be truth in this manner ofreconciling the strange caprices which seem to urge us even to what wehave hitherto shown repugnance. I have neither taste nor patience forthe inquiry; enough for me the fact that I loved her, with an ardourintense a
s it was sudden.
'I will not weary you with any story of my passion. It was the oldnarrative of a hopeless love, affection unreturned, a whole heart'sdevotion given without the shadow of requital. There was not an artificeI did not practise to cure myself of this baleful infatuation. Ireasoned, I pondered, I even prayed against it. I tried to investher with all the "traits" of that "canaille" multitude I hated. Iendeavoured to believe her the very type of that base herd who exultedover our ruin and downfall; but no sooner did I see her, and hearher voice, than I forgot all my self-deceptions, and loved her moreardently, ay, more abjectly than ever. We live in strange times,Gerald,' said he, with a deep sigh, 'and we learn hard lessons. Thatthis poor and friendless girl of the people should despise a Count deNoe tells to what depths we have fallen.'
Gerald listened with deep interest to this story. He never doubtedin his own mind that this girl was Marietta, nor did he wonder atthe fascination she exercised; still was he careful to conceal thisknowledge from De Noe, and affecting a mere curiosity in the adventure,asked him to continue.
'I have little more to tell you,' said the other. 'I know not if myattentions persecuted her, or that the promptings of a higher ambitionmoved her, but she left us, some said, to become the mistress ofMirabeau; others declared that Collot d'Herbois was her lover. The truthwas soon apparent when she appeared at the Francais under the name ofGabrielle. Ay, Gerald, the great genius of the French stage, the giftedpupil of Talma, the marvellous artiste whose triumphs are trumpetedthrough Europe, was the other day but the gipsy actress of the Trou deTaupe, as our little stage was politely named.'
De Noe described with enthusiasm the fervour of admiration La Gabriellehad excited; how the foremost men of the time had offered to sharefortune with her; that she had but to choose throughout France the manwho would be her protector--from Dumourier to Tinaille, there is not onewould not make her his wife to-morrow.
'I see,' added he, 'that you account all this exaggeration on my part.Well, there is happily a way to test the faithfulness of my report.'
'How so?'
'To-morrow evening is Madame Roland's night of reception. You have heardof her as the great leader of the advanced reformers--they who wouldstrip the nation of everything to clothe it in rags of their ownpattern. Come with me there; I will present you as a young friend fromthe provinces, or better still, an exile fled from Italian tyranny. Youwill meet the most distinguished men of that extreme party; you willhear their sentiments and their hopes. A stray phrase about despotism,a passing word of execration on kingly rule, will be enough to make youfree of the guild, and you will not fail to glean information from them.At all events, there is a great chance that you may see "Gabrielle;" sherarely misses one of these evenings, and you will see her in the sphereshe loves best to move in, and where her influence is unbounded. It maybe she will give me leave to present you.'
'I will not ask so much,' said Gerald, with an affected humility.
'You cannot say so till you have seen her,' cried the other. 'I tellyou, Gerald, that the men whose pride would scorn the notice of royaltywould kneel with devotion to do her homage. She is not one of thosewhose eminence is a recognised conventionality, but one whose sway isan indisputable influence, greater as she is in real life than whendepicting imaginary sorrows; and then that wondrous gift, the heritageof her gipsy blood, perhaps heightens the power she possesses tosomething almost terrible.'
'Of what do you speak?' asked Gerald eagerly.
'I scarcely know how or what to call it. It savours of the old Egyptianart called "fate-reading." I am sceptical enough on most things; and hadI not seen with my eyes, and heard with my ears, I had scouted the verythought of such revelations.'
'And what have you seen?'
De Noe paused for a few seconds, and in a voice slightly tremulous foragitation, said: 'I will tell you what I myself witnessed. It wasone night late at Madame Roland's: the company had all gone, save theGabrielle, Brissot, Guidet, and myself, and we only waited for carriagesto fetch us away, as the rain was falling in torrents. The Gabrielle,shawled and muffled, ready to depart, seated herself in the antechamber;and refusing all entreaties to return to the salon, remained in a sortof reverie, with closed eyes and clasped hands--the attitude bespeakingone who would not be disturbed. Madame Roland said it was an "extase,"and would not suffer any one to speak. After a long pause, during whichher countenance was perfectly motionless, she slowly raised her arm andpointed with her finger toward one corner of the room. 'There, there,'whispered she, in a low voice, 'what a number of them! There are morethan fifty; and see, they are saddling more! The black one will not lethimself be bridled. Ah! he has kicked the groom; poor fellow! they arecarrying him away. Hush! take care, take care, or the secret will beout. Silly man,' said she, with a mocking smile, 'he would paint outthe arms, as if any one could be deceived by such a cavalcade.' At this,Brissot whispered in my ear: 'It is the royal stable that she sees. Iwill soon test the truth of this vision'; and he stepped unnoticed fromthe room. He had not gone many minutes, when with a long-drawn sighshe opened her eyes and looked about her. "How late my carriage isto-night," said she to Madame Roland, "and how ashamed am I to keepyou up to such an hour!" While Madame Roland answered her in tones ofkindness and affection, I watched the Gabrielle closely. There was not aline in that pale face that indicated the slightest emotion; perhaps themost marked expression was a look of weariness and exhaustion. At lengththe carriage arrived, and she drove away. We, however, all remained, forBrissot had promised me to return, and I told them whither he had gone.It was past two when he came back, pale as death, and covered witha cold perspiration. "It is as she said," cried he, in terror: "twocommissaries have brought the news to Bailly that the king was about tofly to De Bouilly's camp; and all the horses at Versailles were readyfor the start. Two hundred mounted royalists were in the Cour whenthe commissaries arrived." I could tell you of other and more strikingscenes than this,' said De Noe; 'some are yet unaccomplished; but Ibelieve in them as I believe in my own existence.'
Gerald sat without uttering a word for some time. At last he said, 'Youhave given me a great curiosity to see your priestess, if I could but doso unobserved.'
'Nothing is easier. Come early to-morrow evening; and I will take care,after your presentation to the hostess, to secrete you where none willremark you.'
'I agree, then, and will ask you to come and fetch me at the properhour.'
'Remember, Gerald, that in your dress you must adopt the mode of theJacobins.'
'Marat himself could not be more accurate in costume than you will findme,' said Gerald, as he squeezed his friend's hand to say adieu.
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 29