do not recall that clearly,” answered Andrea, blushing. “I only know that he plucked me up out of the crowd. But the touch of his hand caused me the same shock as at Taverney, and again I swooned or rather I slept, for it was a sleep that was good.”
Gilbert devoured all the words, for he knew that so far all was true.
“On recovering my senses, I was in a richly furnished parlor. A lady and her maid were by my side, but they did not seem uneasy. Their faces were benevolently smiling. It was striking half-past twelve.”
“Good,” said the knight, breathing freely. “Continue, Andrea, continue.”
“I thanked the lady for the attentions she was giving, but, knowing in what anxiety you must all be, I begged to be taken home at once. They told me that the Count—for they knew our Baron Balsamo as Count Fenix, had gone back to the scene of the accident, but would return with his carriage and take me to our house. Indeed, about two o’clock, I heard carriage wheels and felt the same warning shiver of his approach. I reeled and fell on a sofa as the door opened; I barely could recognize my deliverer as the giddiness seized me. During this unconsciousness I was put in the coach and brought here. It is all I recall, brother.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Philip, in a joyful voice; “your calculations of the time agree with mine. I will call on Marchioness Savigny and personally thank her. A last word of secondary import. Did you notice any familiar face in the excitement? Such as little Gilbert’s, for instance?”
“Yes, I fancy I did see him a few paces off, as you and I were driven apart,” said Andrea, recollecting.
“She saw me,” muttered Gilbert.
“Because, when I was seeking you, I came across the boy.”
“Among the dead?” asked the lady with the shade of assumed interest which the great take in their inferiors.
“No, only wounded, and I hope he will come round. His chest was crushed in.”
“Ay, against hers,” thought Gilbert.
“But the odd part of it was that I found in his clenched hand a rag from your dress, Andrea,” pursued Philip.
“Odd, indeed; but I saw in this Dance of Death such a series of faces, that I can hardly say whether his figured truly there or not, poor little fellow!”
“But how do you account for the scrap in his grip?” pressed the captain.
“Good gracious! nothing more easy,” rejoined the girl with tranquillity greatly contrasting with the eavesdropper’s frightful throbbing of the heart. “If he were near me and he saw me lifted up, as I stated, by the spell of that man, he might have clutched at my skirts to be saved as the drowning snatch at a straw.”
“Ugh,” grumbled Gilbert, with gloomy contempt for this haughty explanation, “what ignoble interpretation of my devotion! How wrongly these aristocrats judge us people. Rousseau is right in saying that we are worth more than they—our heart is purer and our arms stronger.”
At that he heard a sound behind him.
“What, is not that madcap Nicole here?” asked Baron Taverney, for it was he who passed by Gilbert hiding and entered his daughter’s room.
“I dare say she is in the garden,” replied his daughter, the latter with a quiet proving that she had no suspicion of the listener; “good evening, papa.”
The old noble took an armchair.
“Ha, my children, it is a good step to Versailles when one travels in a hackney coach instead of one of the royal carriages. I have seen the Dauphiness, though, who sent for me to learn about your progress.”
“Andrea is much better, sir.”
“I knew that and told her Royal Highness so. She is good enough to promise to call her to her side when she sets up her establishment in the Little Trianon Palace which is being fitted up to her liking.”
“I at court?” said Andrea timidly.
“Not much of a court; the Dauphiness has quiet tastes and the Prince Royal hates noise and bustle. They will live domestically at Trianon. But judging what the Austrian princess’s humor is, I wager that as much will be done in the family circle as at official assemblies. The princess has a temper and the Dauphin is deep, I hear.”
“Make no mistake, sister, it will still be a court,” said Captain Philip, sadly.
“The court,” thought Gilbert with intense rage and despair, “a hight I cannot scale—an abyss into which I cannot hurl myself! Andrea will be lost to me!”
“We have neither the wealth to allow us to inhabit that palace, nor the training to fit us for it,” replied the girl to her father. “What would a poor girl like me do among those most brilliant ladies of whom I have had a glimpse? Their splendor dazzled me, while their wit seemed futile though sparkling. Alas, brother, we are obscure to go amid so much light!”
“What nonsense!” said the baron, frowning. “I cannot make out why my family always try to bemean what affects me! obscure—you must be mad, miss! A Taverney Redcastle, obscure! who should shine if not you, I want to know? Wealth? we know what wealth at court is—the crown is a sun which creates the gold—it does the gilding, and it is the tide of nature. I was ruined—I become rich, and there you have it. Has not the King money to offer his servitors? Am I to blush if he provides my son with a regiment and gives my daughter a dowry? or an appanage for me, or a nice warrant on the Treasury—when I am dining with the King and I find it under my plate?”
“No, no, only fools are squeamish—I have no prejudices. It is my due and I shall take it. Don’t you have any scruples, either. The only matter to debate is your training. You have the solid education of the middle class with the more showy one of your own; you paint just such landscapes as the Dauphiness doats upon. As for your beauty, the King will not fail to notice it. As for conversation, which Count Artois and Count Provence like—you will charm them. So you will not only be welcome but adored. That is the word,” concluded the cynic, rubbing his hands and laughing so unnaturally that Philip stared to see if it were a human being.
But, taking Andrea’s hand as she lowered her eyes, the young gentleman said:
“Father is right; you are all he says, and nobody has more right to go to Versailles Palace.”
“But I would be parted from you,” remonstrated Andrea.
“Not at all,” interrupted the baron; “Versailles is large enough to hold all the Taverneys.”
“True, but the Trianon is small,” retorted Andrea, who could be proud and willful.
“Trianon is large enough to find a room for Baron Taverney,” returned the old nobleman, “a man like me always finds a place”—meaning “can find a place. Any way, it is the Dauphiness’s order.”
“I will go,” said Andrea.
“That is good. Have you any money, Philip?” asked the old noble.
“Yes, if you want some; but if you want to offer me it, I should say that I have enough as it is.”
