LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XXXIV.

       Near Neighbors.

       Table of Contents

      On parting from young Taverney, Gilbert had plunged into the crowd. But not with a heart bounding with glee and expectation—rather with the soul ulcerated by grief which the noble's kind welcome and obliging offers of assistance could not mollify.

      Andrea never suspected that she had been cruel to the youth. The fair and serene maiden was completely unaware that there could be any link between her and her foster-brother, for joy or sorrow. She soared over earthly spheres, casting on them shine or shadow according to her being smiling or gloomy. This time it chanced that her shade of disdain had chilled Gilbert; as she had merely followed the impulse of her temper, she was ignorant that she had been scornful.

      But Gilbert, like a disarmed gladiator, had received the proud speech and the scorning looks straight in the heart. He was not enough of a philosopher yet not to console himself with despair while the wound was bleeding.

      Hence he did not notice men or horses in the press. Gathering up his strength, he rushed into it, at the risk of being crushed, like a wild boar cutting through the pack of hounds.

      At length breathing more freely, he reached the green sward, water side and loneliness. He had run to the river Seine, and came out opposite St. Denis island. Exhausted, not by bodily fatigue but by spiritual anguish, he rolled on the grass, and roared like a lion transfixed by a spear, as if the animal's voice better expressed his woes than human tongue.

      Was not all the vague and undecided hope which had flung a little light on the mad ideas, not to be accounted for to himself, now extinguished at a blow? To whatever step on the social ladder Gilbert might rise by dint of genius, science and study, he would always be a man or a thing—according to her own words, for which her father was wrong in paying any attention, and not worth her lowering her eyes upon.

      He had briefly fancied that, on seeing him in the capital, and learning his resolution to struggle till he came up through the darkness, Andrea would applaud the effort. Not only had the cheer failed the brave boy, but he had met the haughty indifference always had for the dependent by the young lady of the manor.

      Furthermore she had shown anger that he should have looked at her music book; had he touched it, he did not doubt that he would be thought fit to be burned at the stake.

      As he writhed on the turf, he knew not whether he loved or hated his torturer; he suffered, that was all. But as he was not capable of long patience, he sprang out of his prostration, decided to invent some energetic course.

      "Granted that she does not love me," he reasoned, "I must not hope that she never will. I had the right to expect from her the mild interest attached to those who wrestle with their misfortune. She did not understand what her brother saw. He thought that I might become a celebrity; should it happen so, he would act fairly and let me have his sister, in reward of my earned glory, as he would have exchanged her for my native aristocracy, had I been born his equal.

      "But I shall always be plain Gilbert in her eyes, for she looks down in me upon what nothing can efface, gild or cover—my low birth. As though, supposing I attain my mark, it would not be greater of me than if I had started on her high level! Oh, mad creature! senseless being! oh, woman, woman—your other name is Imperfection.

      "Do not be deluded by the splendid gaze, intelligent smile, and queenly port of Andrea de Taverney, whose beauty makes her fit to rule society—she is but a rustic dame, straitlaced, limited, swathed in aristocratic prejudices. Equals for her are those empty-headed fops, with effete minds, who had the means to learn everything and know nothing; they are the men to whom she pays heed. Gilbert is but a dog, less than a dog, for I believe she asked after Mahon, and not about my welfare.

      "Ah, she is ignorant that I am fit to cope with them; when I wear the like coats, I shall look as well; and that, with my inflexible determination, I shall grasp——"

      A dreadful smile was defined on his lips where the sentence died away unfinished. Frowning, he slowly lowered his head.

      What passed in that obscure soul? What terrible plan bent the pale forehead, already sallow with sleepless nights, and furrowed by thinking? Who shall tell?

      At the close of half an hour's profound meditation, Gilbert rose, coldly determined. He went to the river, drank a long draft, and looking round, saw the distant waves of the people in a sea coming out of St. Denis.

      They so crowded in upon the first coaches that the horses had to go at a walk, on the road to St. Ouen.

      The dauphin wanted the ceremony to be a national family festival. So the French family abused the privilege; a number of Parisians climbed on the footboards and hung there without being disturbed.

      Very soon Gilbert recognized the Taverney carriage, with Philip holding in his capering horse by the side.

      "I must know where she goes," thought the lover; "and so shall follow them."

      It was intended that the dauphiness should sup with the royal family in private at Muette, but Louis XV. had broken the etiquette so far as to make up a larger party. He handed a list of guests to the dauphiness, with a pencil, and suggested she should strike out the names of any not liked to come. When she came to the last name, Countess Dubarry's, she felt her lips quiver and lose blood; but sustained by her mother's instructions, she summoned up her powers to her aid, and with a charming smile returned the paper and pencil to the king, saying that she was very happy to be let into the bosom of all his family at the very first.

      Gilbert knew nothing about this, and it was only when he got to Muette that he recognized the coach of Dubarry, with Zamore mounted on a high white horse. Luckily it was dark, and Gilbert threw himself on the ground in a grove and waited.

      The king, then, shared supper between mistress and daughter-in-law, and was merry especially on seeing that the newcomer treated the usurper more kindly even than at Compiegne.

      But the dauphin, gloomy and careworn, spoke of having the headache, and retired before they sat at table.

      The supper was prolonged to eleven o'clock.

      The king sent a band of music to play to the repast for the gentry of the retinue—of which our proud Andrea had to admit she was a member; as the accommodation was limited, fifty masters had to picnic on the lawn, served by men in royal livery. In the thicket, Gilbert lost nothing of this scene. Taking out a piece of bread, he ate along with the guests, while watching that those he attended to did not slip away.

      After the meal, the dauphiness came out on the balcony to take leave of her hosts. Near her stood the king. Countess Dubarry kept out of sight in the back of the room, with that exquisite tact which even her enemies allowed she had.

      The courtiers passed under the balcony to salute the king, who named such of them to the dauphiness as she did not already know. From time to time some happy allusion or pleasant saying dropped from his lips, to delight those who received it. Seeing this servility, Gilbert muttered to himself:

      "I am a touch above these slaves, for I would not crouch like that for all the gold in the world."

      He rose on one knee when the turn came for the Taverneys to pass.

      "Captain Taverney," said the dauphiness, "I grant you leave to conduct your father and sister to Paris."

      In the nightly silence and amid the attention of those drinking in the august words, Gilbert caught the sound coming in his direction.

      "My lord baron," continued the princess, "I have no accommodation yet for you among my household; so guard your daughter

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