Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician

"Oh! I am under the roof of Jean Jacques Rousseau!"

The old gentleman smiled with more happiness at this unstudied ovation than at the thousand triumphs of his glorious life.

"Yes, my friend, you are in Rousseau's house."

"Pray forgive me for the nonsense I have talked," said the hero-worshiper, clasping his hands and about to fall on his knees.

"Did it require a prince's call for you to recognize the persecuted philosopher of Geneva? poor child – but lucky one – who is ignorant of persecution."

"Oh, I am happy to see you, to know you, to dwell by you."

"Yes, yes, that is all very well; but we must earn our living. When you shall have copied this piece – for you have practiced enough to make a start – you will have earned your keep to-day. I charge nothing for the lodging – only do not sit up late and burn up the candles, for Therese will scold. What was left over from supper last night will be our breakfast; but this will be the last meal we take together, unless I invite you. In the street is a cheap dining-house for artisans, where you will fare nicely. I recommend it. In the mean time, let us breakfast."

Gilbert followed without a word, for he was conquered, for the first time; but then this was a man superior to others.

After the first mouthfuls he left table; the shock had spoilt his appetite. At eight in the evening he had copied a piece of music, not artistically but legibly, and Rousseau paid him the six cents.

"We have plenty of bread," remarked Therese, on whom the young man's gentleness, application and discretion had produced good effect.

"I shall never forget your kindness, madame," he said, about to excuse himself, when he caught the host's eye and guessed that it would offend him.

"I accept," he said.

He went up to his loft, with the bread and money.

"At last I am my own master," he said to himself, "or should be but for this bread, which is from charity."

Although hungry, he placed it on the window sill and did not touch it during the night, though famine made him remember it.

He woke up at daylight, but still he did not eat the bread. He took it up, though, and at five o'clock, went down and outdoors.

From suspicion, or merely to study his guest, Rousseau was on the lookout, and he followed the youth up the street.

A beggar coming up to Gilbert, he gave him the hunk of bread. Entering the baker's, he bought another roll.

"He is going into the eating-house," thought the watcher, "where the money will soon fly."

But Gilbert munched part of the roll while strolling; he washed down the rest at the public fountain, washed his hands and sauntered home.

"By my faith, I believe that I am happier than Diogenes and have found an honest man," thought Rousseau.

The day passed in uninterrupted labor. At even Gilbert had turned out seven pages of copy – if not elegant, faultless. He tested in his hand the money received for it with ardent satisfaction.

"You are my master," he said, "since I find work in your place and you give me lodgings gratis. I should therefore lay myself open to be badly thought of by you if I acted without consulting you."

"What," said Rousseau, frightened; "what are you going to do? Going off elsewhere to work?"

"No, only I want a holiday, with your leave, to-morrow."

"To idle?"

"No, to go to St. Denis to see the dauphiness arrive."

"I thought you scorned the pomps of this worldly show," said Rousseau. "I, though an obscure citizen, despised the invitation of these great people to be of the reception party."

Gilbert nodded approval.

"I am not philosophic," said he, "but I am discreet."

This word struck the tutor, who saw there was some mystery in this behavior, and he looked at the speaker with admiration.

"I am glad to see you have a motive."

"Yes, and one which does not resemble the curiosity of a man at a show."

"It is for the better, or for the worse, for your look is deep, young man, and I seek in it in vain for youthful calm and candor."

"I told you I was unfortunate," returned Gilbert; "and such have no youth."

"But at the hour when you are seeing all the pomps of society glitter before you, I shall open one of my herbariums and review the magnificence of nature."

"But would you not have turned your back on herbariums if you were going to see your sweetheart – the one to whom you tossed a bunch of cherries?"

"Quite true! And you are young. Go to the show, my boy. It is not ambition in him, but love," he commented when Gilbert had gone out gleefully.

CHAPTER XXX

OLD PATRICIANS AND NEW

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.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE MAGICIAN'S WIFE

All the rumbling of the coaches, the booming of the bells swinging to the full extent, the rolling of the drums, all the majesty of the society the Princess Louise had discarded in order to live in the nunnery, glided over her soul and died away at the base of her cell wall, like the useless tide. She had refused to return to the court, and while her sisterhood were still agitated by the royal visit, she alone did not quiver when the heavy door banged and shut out the world from her solitude.

She summoned her treasurer to her.

"During these two days of frivolous uproar," she inquired, "have the poor been visited, the sick attended, and those soldiers on guard given bread and wine!"

"Nobody has wanted in this house."

Suddenly the kick of a horse was heard against the woodwork of the stables.

"What is that? Has any courtier remained?"

"Only his eminence the Cardinal de Rohan; that is the horse of the Italian lady who came here yesterday to crave hospitality of your highness."

"True; I remember. Where is she?"

"In her room, or in the church. She refuses all food save bread, and prayed in the chapel all through the night."

"Some very guilty person, no doubt," said the lady superior, frowning.

"I know not, for she speaks to no one."

"What is she like?"

"Handsome, but proud, along with tenderness."

"How did she act during the royal ceremony?"

"She peeped out of her window, hiding in the curtains, and examined everybody as though she feared to see an enemy."

"Some member of the class which I have reigned over. What is her name?"

"Lorenza Feliciani."

"I know of no person of that name, but show her in."

Princess Louise sat in an ancient oak chair, carved in the reign of Henri II. and used by nine Carmelite abbesses. Before this seat of justice many poor novices had quailed between spiritual and temporal power.

A moment following the treasurer returned, ushering in the foreigner whom we know; she wore a long veil. With the piercing eye of her race, Princess Louise studied Lorenza on her entering the closet; but her hostile feelings became sisterly and benevolent on seeing so much grace and humility in the visitor, so much sublime beauty, and, in short, so much innocence in the large black eyes wet with tears.

The princess prevented her dropping on her knees.

"Draw near and speak," said she. "Are you called Lorenza Feliciani?"

"Yes, lady."

"You want to confide a secret to me?"

"I am dying with the desire."

"But why do you not go to the penitential chamber? I have no power but to console; a priest can comfort and forgive." She spoke the last word hesitatingly.

"I need comfort alone; and to a woman alone can I entrust my confession. Will you listen patiently to my most strange story, to be told to you alone, for you are mighty, and I require the hand of heaven to defend me."

"Defend? Are you pursued and attacked?"

"Yes, indeed, my lady," said the fugitive, with unutterable fright.

"Reflect, madame, that this is a nunnery and not a castle," said the princess; "what agitates mankind enters here but to be extinguished; weapons to use against man are not here; it is the abode of God, not of might, repression and justice."

"The very thing I seek," answered Lorenza; "in the abode of God alone can I find a life of rest."

"But not of vengeance. If you want reprisal on your foes, apply to the magistrates."

"They can do nothing against the man whom I dread."

"Who can he be?" asked the lady superior, with secret and involuntary fright.

"Who?" said the Italian, approaching the princess-abbess under the sway of mysterious exaltation. "I am certain that he is one of those devils who war against mankind, endowed by their Prince Satan with superhuman power."

"What are you telling me?" said the other, regarding the woman to make sure that she was not mad.

"What a wretch am I to have fallen across the path of this demon," groaned Lorenza, writhing her lovely arms, seemingly reft from a flawless ancient statue. "I am possessed of a fiend," she gasped, going up to the lady and speaking in a low voice, as if afraid to hear her own tones.

"Possessed! Speak out, if you are in your senses."

"I am not mad, though I may become so, if you drive me away."

"But allow me to say that I see you like a creature favored by heaven; you seem rich and are beauteous; you express yourself correctly, and your face does not wear traces of the terrible and mysterious complaint called demoniac possession."

"In my life, madame, and its adventures resides the sinister secret which I wish I could keep from myself. Lady, I am a Roman, where my father came of the old patricians, but like most Roman nobles, he is poor. I have also a mother and elder brother. In France, when an aristocratic family has a son and a daughter, she is put into a nunnery that the money which should have been her marriage portion shall buy the son a military commission. Among us, the daughter is sacrificed to help the son rise in holy orders. I was given no education, while my brother was trained to be a cardinal, as my mother simply said. I was destined to take the veil among the Subiaco Carmelites. Such a future had been held out to me from youth as a necessity. I had no will or strength in the matter. I was not consulted but ordered, and had to obey. We Roman girls love society without knowing anything about it, as the suffering souls in paradise love heaven. I was surrounded by examples which would have doomed me, had the idea of resistance come to me, but none such came. But my mother fondled me a little more than usual when the fatal day dawned.

"My father gathered five hundred Roman crowns to pay my entrance fee into the convent, and we set out for Subiaco. It is some nine leagues from Rome; but the mountain roads were so bad that we were five hours getting over three of them. But the journey pleased me, though it might be fatiguing. I smiled on it as my last pleasure, and along the road bade farewell to the trees, bushes, stones and the dried grass itself. I feared that in the nunnery would be not even grass and flowers.

"Suddenly, amid my dreams, and as we were passing between a grove and a pile of rocks, the carriage stopped. I heard my mother scream, and my father jumped to get his pistols. My eyes and mind dropped from the skies to the earth, for we were stopped by highwaymen."

"Poor girl!" exclaimed Princess Louise, interested in the tale.

"I was not frightened, for the brigands waylaid us for money, and what they took was to pay my way into the nunnery; hence there would be a delay until it was made up again, and I knew that it would take time and trouble. But when, after sharing this plunder, the bandits, instead of letting us go our way, sprang upon me, and I saw my father's efforts to defend me and my mother's tears in entreaty, then I comprehended that a great though unknown misfortune threatened me, and I began to call for mercy. It was natural, though I knew that it was useless calling and that nobody would hear in this wild spot. Hence, without heeding my father's struggles, my mother's weeping, or my appeals, the banditti tied my hands behind my back, and began throwing dice on one of their handkerchiefs spread on the ground, while burning me with hideous glances, which I understood from terror giving me clearness of sight.

"What most frightened me was not to see any stake on the board. I shuddered as the dice cup passed from hand to hand, at the thought that I was the stake.

"All of a sudden, one of them, with a yell of triumph, jumped up, while the others ground their teeth and swore. He ran up to me, took me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. The contact of redhot iron could not have drawn a more heartrending scream from me.

"'Rather death, O God!' I shrieked.

"My mother writhed on the ground where my father lay, in a dead swoon. My only hope was that one of the losing villains would kill me out of spite with the dagger he held in his clenched fist. I waited for this stroke – longed, prayed for it.