FOR a week that Gilbert had been in flight from Trianon, he lived in the woods with no other food than the wild roots, plants and fruit. At the last gasp, he went into town to Rousseau’s house, formerly a sure haven, not to foist himself on his hospitality, but to have temporary rest and nourishment.

It was there that he obtained the address of Baron Balsamo, or rather Count Fenix, and to his mansion he repaired.

As he entered, the proprietor was showing out the Prince of Rohan whom a duty of politeness brought to the generous alchemist. The poor, tattered boy dared not look up for fear of being dazzled.

Balsamo watched the cardinal go off in his carriage, with a melancholy eye and turned back on the porch, when this little beggar supplicated him.

“A brief hearing, my lord,” he said. “Do you not recall me?”

“No; but no matter, come in,” said the conspirator whose plots made him acquainted with stranger figures still: and he led him into the first room where he said, without altering his dull tone but gentle manner:

“You asked if I recalled you? well, I seem to have seen you before.”

“At Taverney, when the Archduchess came through. I was a dependent on the family. I have been away three years.”

“Coming to—— ”

“To Paris, where I have studied under M. Rousseau and, later, a gardener at Trianon by the favor of Dr. Jussieu.”

“You are citing high and mighty names: What do you want of me?”

Gilbert fixed a glance on Balsamo not deficient in firmness.

“Do you remember coming to Trianon on the night of the great storm, Friday, six weeks ago? I saw you there.”

“Oho!” said the other. “Have you come to bargain for silence?”

“No, my lord, for I am more interested in keeping the secret than you.”

“Then you are Gilbert!”

With his deep and devouring glance the magnetiser enveloped the young man whose name comprised such a dreadful accusation. Gilbert stood before the table without leaning on it: one of his hands fell gracefully by his side, the other showed its long thin fingers and whiteness spite of the rustic labor.

“I see by your countenance what you come for. You know that a dreadful denunciation is hanging over you from Mdlle. de Taverney, that her brother seeks your life, and you think I will help you to elude the outcome of a cowardly act. You ought not to have the imprudence to walk about in Paris.”

“This little matters. Yes,” said the young man, “I love Mdlle. de Taverney as none other will love her: but she scorned me who was so respectful to her that, twice having her in my arms, I hardly kissed the hem of her dress.”

“You made up for this respect and revenged yourself for the scorn by wronging her, in a trap.”

“I did not set the trap: the occasion to commit the crime was afforded by you.”

The count started as though a snake had stung him.

“You sent Mdlle. Andrea to sleep, my lord,” pursued Gilbert. “When I carried her into her room, I thought that such love as mine must give life to the statue—I loved her and I yielded to my love. Am I as guilty as they say? tell me, you who are the cause of my misery.”

Balsamo gave him a look of sadness and pity.

“You are right, boy: I am the cause of your crime and the girl’s misfortune. I should repair my omission. Do you love her?”

“Before possessing her, I loved with madness: now with fury. I should die with grief if she repulsed me; with joy if she forgave me.”

“She is nobly born but poor,” mused the count: “her brother has a heart and is not vain about his rank. What would happen if you asked the brother for the sister’s hand?”

“He would kill me. But as I wish death more than I fear it, I will make the demand if you advise it.”

“You have brains and heart though your deed was guilt, my complicity apart. There is a Taverney the father. Tell him that you bring a fortune to his daughter the day when she marries you and he may assent. But he would not believe you. Here is the solid inducement.”

He opened a table drawer and counted out thirty Treasury notes for ten thousand livres each.

“Is this possible?” cried Gilbert, brightening: “such generosity is too sublime.”

“You are distrustful. Right; and but discriminate in distrust.”

He took a pen and wrote:

“If I have to thank you for such a boon, I will worship you like a god,” said the young man, trembling.

“There is but one God and He reigns above,” said the mesmerist.

“A last favor; give me fifty livres to get a suit fit for me to present myself to the baron.”

Supplying him with this little sum, Balsamo nodded for him to go, and with his slow, sad step, went into the house.

The young man walked to Versailles, for he wanted to build his plans on the road where he was much annoyed by the hack-drivers who could not understand why such a dandy as he had turned himself out by the outlay of the fifty livres, could think of walking.

All his batteries were prepared when he reached the Trianon but they were useless. As we know, the Taverneys had departed. All the janitor of the place knew was that the doctor had ordered the young lady home for native air.

Disappointed, he walked back to Paris where he knocked at the door of the house in Coq-Heron Street, but here again was a blank. No one came to the door.

Mad with rage, gnawing his nails to punish the body, he turned the corner and entered Rousseau’s house where he went up to his familiar garret. He locked the door and hung the handkerchief containing the banknotes to the key.

It was a fine evening and as he had often done before, he went and leaned out of the window. He looked again at the garden house where he had spied Andrea’s movements, and the desire seized him to wander for the last time in the grounds once hallowed by her presence.

As he recovered from the smart of the failure to his expectation, his ideas became sharper and more precise.

In other times when he had climbed down into the young lady’s garden by a rope, there was danger because the baron lived there and Nicole was out and about, if only for the meetings with her soldier lover.

“Let me for the last time trace her footsteps in the sandroof, the paths,” he said: “The adored steps of my bride.”

He spoke the word half aloud, with a strange pleasure.

He had one merit, he was quick to execute a plan once formed.

He went down stairs on tiptoe and swung himself out of the back window whence he could slide down by the espalier into the rear garden. He went up to the door to listen, when he heard a faint sound which made him recoil. He believed that he had called up another soul, and he fell on his knees as the door opened and disclosed Andrea.

She uttered a cry as he had done, but as she no doubt expected someone she was not afraid.

“Who is there?” she called out.

“Forgive me,” said Gilbert, with his face turned to the ground.

“Gilbert, here?” she said with anger and fear; “in our garden? What have you come here for?”

She looked at him with surprise understanding nothing of his groveling at her feet.

“Rise and explain how you come here.”

“I will never rise till you forgive me,” he said.

“What have you done to me that I should forgive you? pray, explain. As the offense cannot be great,” she went on with a melancholy smile, “the pardon will be easy. Did Philip give you the key?”

“The key?”

“Of course, for it was agreed that I should admit nobody in his absence and he must have helped you in, unless you scaled the wall.”

“O, happiness unhoped for, that you should not have left the land! I thought to find the place deserted and only your memory remaining. Chance only—but I hardly know what I am saying. It was your father that I wanted to see—— ”

“Why my father?”

Gilbert mistook the nature of the question.

“Because I was too frightened of you to—and yet, I do not know but that it would be better for us to keep it to ourselves. It is the surest way to repair my boldness in lifting my eyes to you. But the misfortune is accomplished—the crime, if you will, for really it was a great crime. Accuse fate, but not my heart—— ”

“You are mad, and you alarm me.”

“Oh, if you will consent to marriage to sanctify this guilty union.”

“Marriage,” said Andrea, receding.

“For pity, consent to be my wife!”

“Your wife?”

“Oh,” sobbed Gilbert, “say that you forgive me for that dreadful night, that my outrage horrifies, but you forgive me for my repentance; say that my long restrained love justifies my action.”

“Oh, it was you?” shrieked Andrea with savage fury. “Oh, heavens!”

Gilbert recoiled before this lovely Medusa’s head expressing astonishment and fright.

“Was this misery reserved for me, oh, God?” said the noble girl, “to see my name doubly disgraced—by the crime and by the criminal? Answer me, coward, wretch, was it you?”

“She was ignorant,” faltered Gilbert, astounded.

“Help, help,” screamed Andrea, rushing into the house; “here he is, Philip!”

He followed her close.

“Would you murder me,” she hissed, brought to bay.

“No; it is to do good, not harm that this time I have come. If I proposed marriage it was to act my part fitly; and I did not even expect you to bear my name. But there is another for whom see these one hundred thousand livres which a generous patron gives me for marriage portion.”

He placed the banknotes on the table which served as barrier between them. “I want nothing but the little air I breathe and the little pit, my grave, while the child, my child, our child has the money!”

“Man, you make a grave error,” said she, “you have no child. It has but one parent, the mother—you are not the father of my infant.”

Taking up the notes, she flung them in his face as he retreated. He was made so furious that Andrea’s good angel might tremble for her. But at the same moment the door was slammed in his flaming face as if by that violent act she divided the past forever from the present.