CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT ANDREA WANTED OF GILBERT.
At eight precisely next day, Gilbert knocked at the house-door of theCountess of Charny.
On hearing of her request made to Pitou, he had asked him for fullparticulars of the occurrence, and he had pondered over them.
As he went out in the morning, he sent for Pitou to go to the collegewhere his son and Andrea's, Sebastian, was being educated, and bringhim to Coq-Heron Street. He was to wait at the door there for thephysician to come out.
No doubt the old janitor had been informed of the doctor's visit, forhe showed him at once into the sitting-room.
Andrea was waiting, clad in full mourning. It was clear that she hadneither slept nor wept all the night through; her face was pale and hereyes dry. Never had the lines of her countenance, always indicative ofwillfulness carried to the degree of stubbornness, been more firmlyfixed.
It was hard to tell what resolution that loving heart had settled on,but it was plain that it had come to one. This was comprehended byGilbert at a first glance, as he was a skilled observer and a reasoningphysician.
He bowed and waited.
"I asked you to come because I want a favor done, and it must be put toone who can not refuse it me."
"You are right, madame; not, perhaps, in what you are about to ask, butin what you have done; for you have the right to claim of me anything,even to my life."
She smiled bitterly.
"Your life, sir, is one of those so precious to mankind that I shouldbe the first to pray God to prolong it and make it happy, far fromwishing it abridged. But acknowledge that yours is placed under happyinfluences, as there are others seemingly doomed beneath a fatal star."
Gilbert was silent.
"Mine, for instance," went on Andrea; "what do you say about mine? Letme recall it briefly," she said, as Gilbert lowered his eyes. "I wasborn poor. My father was a ruined spendthrift before I was born. Mychildhood was sad and lonesome. You knew what my father was, as youwere born on his estate and grew up in our house, and you can measurethe little affection he had for me.
"Two persons, one of whom was bound to be a stranger to me, while theother was unknown, exercised a fatal and mysterious sway over me, inwhich my will went for naught. One disposed of my soul, the other of mybody. I became a mother without ceasing to be a virgin. By this horridevent I nearly lost the love of the only being who ever loved me--mybrother Philip.
"I took refuge in the idea of motherhood, and that my babe would loveme; but it was snatched from me within an hour of its birth. I wastherefore a wife without a husband, a mother without a child.
"A queen's friendship consoled me.
"One day chance sent me in a public vehicle with the queen and ahandsome young gallant, whom fatality caused me to love, though I hadnever loved a soul.
"He fell in love with the queen. I became the confidante in this amour.As I believe you have loved without return, Doctor Gilbert, you canunderstand what I suffered. Yet this was not enough. It happened on aday that the queen came to me to say: 'Andrea, save my life; more thanlife--my honor!' It was necessary that I should become the bride of theman I had loved three years without becoming his wife. I agreed. Fiveyears I dwelt beside that man, flame within, but ice without; a statuewith a burning heart. Doctor, as a doctor, can you understand what myheart went through?
"One day--day of unspeakable bliss--my self-sacrifice, silence, anddevotion touched that man. For six years I loved him without lettinghim suspect it by a look, when he came all of a quiver to throw himselfat my feet and cry: 'I know all, and I love you!'
"Willing to recompense me, God, in giving me my husband, restored me mychild. A year flew by like a day--nay, an hour, a minute. This year isall I call my life.
"Four days ago the lightning fell at my feet. The count's honor bid himgo to Paris, to die there. I did not make any remark, did not shed atear; I went with him. Hardly had we arrived before he parted from me.Last night I found him, slain. There he rests, in the next room.
"Do you think I am too ambitious to crave to lie in the same grave? Doyou believe you can refuse the request I make to you?
"Doctor Gilbert, you are a learned physician and a skillful chemist.You have been guilty of great wrongs to me, and you have much toexpiate as regards me. Well, give me a swift sure poison, and I shallnot merely forgive you all, but die with a heart full of gratitude toyou."
"Madame," replied Gilbert, "as you say, your life has been one long,dolorous trial, and for it all glory be yours, since you have borne itnobly and saintly, like a martyr."
She gave an impatient toss of the head, as if she wanted a directanswer.
"Now you say to your torturer: 'You made my life a misery; give mea sweet death.' You have the right to do this, and there is reasonin your adding: 'You must do it, for you have no right to refuse meanything,' Do you still want the poison?"
"I entreat you to be friend enough to give it me."
"Is life so heavy to you that it is impossible for you to support it?"
"Death is the sweetest boon man can give me; the greatest blessing Godmay grant me."
"In ten minutes you shall have your wish, madame," responded Gilbert,bowing and taking a step toward the door.
"Ah!" said the lady, holding out her hand to him, "you do me morekindness in an instant than you did harm in all your life. God blessyou, Gilbert!"
He hurried out. At the door he found Pitou and Sebastian, waiting in ahack.
"Sebastian," he said to the youth, drawing a small vial attached to agold chain from inside his clothes at his breast, "take this flask ofliquor to the Countess of Charny."
"How long am I to stay with her?"
"As long as you like."
"Where am I to find you?"
"I shall be waiting here."
Taking the small bottle, the young man went in-doors. In a quarter ofan hour he came forth. Gilbert cast on him a rapid glance. He broughtback the tiny flask untouched.
"What did she say?" asked Gilbert.
"'Not from your hand, my child!'"
"What did she do then?"
"She fell a-weeping."
"She is saved," said Gilbert. "Come, my boy," and he embraced him moretenderly than ever before. In clasping him to his heart, he heard thecrackling of paper.
"What is that?" he asked, with a nervous laugh of joy. "Do you bychance carry your compositions in your breast-pocket?"
"There, I had forgotten," said the youth, taking a parchment from hispocket. "The countess gave it me, and says it is to be deposited in theproper registry."
The doctor examined the paper. It was a document which empowered, indefault of heirs male, to the titles of Philip de Taverney, Knight ofRedcastle, Sebastian Emile Gilbert, son of Andrea Taverney, Countessof Charny, to wear that title honorarily until the king should make itgood to him by favor of his mother's service to the Crown, and perhapsaward him the estates to maintain the dignity.
"Keep it," said Gilbert, with a melancholy smile; "as well date itfrom the Greek kalends! The king, I fear, will nevermore dispose ofmore than six-feet-by-three of landed property in his once kingdom ofFrance."
Gilbert could jest, for he believed Andrea saved.
He had reckoned without Marat. A week after, he learned that thescoundrel had denounced the favorite of the queen, and that the widowedCountess of Charny had been arrested and lodged in the old Abbey Prison.