It was at the close of a sultry day that a sick man, wan, pale, and almost voiceless, sat propped up by pillows, and seeming to drink in with a sort of effort the faint breeze that entered by an open window. A large bouquet of fresh flowers stood in a vase beside him, and on the bed itself moss-roses and carnations were scattered, their gorgeous tints terribly in contrast to the sickly pallor of that visage on which death had already placed its stamp. It would have puzzled the wiliest physiognomist to have read that strange and strongly-marked face; for while the massive head and strong brow, the yet brilliant eye and contracted eyebrow, denoted energy and daring, there was a faint smile, inexpressibly sad and weary-looking, on the mouth, that seemed to bespeak a heart that had experienced many an emotion, and ended by finding ‘all barren.’
A long, low sigh escaped him as he lay, and in his utter weariness his hands dropped listlessly, one falling over the side of the bed. The watchful nurse, who, in the dress of her order as a Sister of Charity, sat nigh, arose and leaned over to regard him.
‘No, Constance, not yet,’ said he, smiling faintly, and answering the unspoken thought that was passing in her mind; ‘not yet; but very near—very near indeed. What hour is it?’
‘St. Roch has just chimed half-past seven,’ replied she calmly.
‘Open the window wider; there is a little air stirring.’
‘No; the evening is very still, but it will be fresher by and by.’
‘I shall not need it,’ said he, more faintly, though with perfect calm. ‘Before midnight, Constance—before midnight it will be the same to me if it breathed a zephyr or blew a gale: where I am going it will do neither.’
‘Oh, Citizen, can I not persuade you to see the Père Dulaque or the Curé of St. Roch? Your minutes are few here now, and I implore you not to waste them.’
‘’Tis so that I intend, my worthy friend,’ said he calmly. ‘Had either of these excellent men you mention made the voyage I am now going, I would speak to them willingly; but remember, Constance, it is a sea without a chart.’
‘Say not so in the face of that blessed Book——’
‘Nay, nay, do not disturb my few moments of calm. How sweet those flowers are! How balmy that little air that now stirs the leaves! Oh, what a fair world it is, or rather it might be! Do not sigh so heavily, Constance; remember what I told you yesterday; our belief is like our loyalty—it is independent of us.’
‘Let some holy man at least speak to you.’
‘Why should I shock his honest faith? Why should he disturb my peace. Know, woman,’ added he, more energetically, ‘that I have striven harder to attain this same faith than ever you have done to resist a heresy. I needed it a thousand times more than you; I ‘d have done more to gain it—clung closer to it when won too.’
‘What did you do?’ asked she boldly.
‘I read, reflected, pondered years long—disputed, discussed, read more—inquired wherever I hoped to meet enlightenment.’
‘You never prayed,’ said she meekly.
‘Prayed! How should I—not knowing for what, or to whom?’
An exclamation—almost a cry—escaped the woman, and her lips were seen to move rapidly, as if in prayer. The sick man seemed to respect the sentiment of devotion that he could not bring himself to feel, and was silent. At last he said, in a voice of much sweetness, ‘Your patient care and kindness are not the less dear to me that I ascribe them to a source your humility would reject. I believe in human nature, my good Constance, though of a verity it has given me strong lessons not to be over-sanguine.’
‘Who has had more friends?’ began she; but he stopped her short at once by a contemptuous gesture with his hand, while he said—
‘Men are your friends in life as they are your companions on a journey—so long as your road lies in the same direction they will travel with you. To bear with your infirmities, to take count of your trials, and make allowance for your hardships; to find out what of good there is in you, and teach you to fertilise it for yourself; to discern the soil of your nature, expel its weeds, and still to be hopeful—this is friendship. But it never comes from a brother man; it is a woman alone can render it. Who is it that knocks there?’ asked he quickly.
She went to the door and speedily returned with the answer—
‘It is the same youth who was here yesterday, and refused to give his name. He is still most urgent in his demand to see you.’
‘Does he know what he asks—that I am on the eve of a long journey, and must needs have my thoughts engaged about the road before me?’
‘I told him you were very ill—very ill indeed; that even your dearest friends only saw you for a few minutes at a time; but he persisted in asserting that if you knew he was there, you would surely see him.’
‘Let his perseverance have its reward. Tell him to come in.’
The sister returned to the door, and after a whispered word to the stranger, enforcing caution in his interview, admitted him, and pointing to the bed where the sick man lay, she retired.
If the features and gestures of the stranger, as he moved silently across the room, denoted the delicacy of a certain refinement, his dress bespoke great poverty; his clothes were ragged, his shoes in tatters, and even the red woollen cap which he had just removed from his head was patched in several places.
The sick man motioned to him to stand where the light would fall upon him strongly; and then, having stared steadfastly at him for several minutes, he sighed drearily, and said, ‘What have you with me?’
‘Don’t you remember me, then, Signor Gabriel?’ asked the young man, in a tone of deep agitation. ‘Don’t you remember Fitzgerald?’
‘The boy of the Maremma—the Garde du Corps—the favourite of the Queen—the postilion on the flight to Va-rennes—the secret letter-carrier to the Temple——’
‘Speak lower, Monsieur! speak lower, I beseech you,’ interposed the other. ‘If I were betrayed, my life is not worth an hour’s purchase.’
‘And is it worth preserving in such a garb as that? I thought you had been an apter scholar, Gerald, and that ere this you had found your way to fortune. The Prince de Condé wrote me that you were his trustiest agent.’
‘And it is on a mission from him that I am here this day. I have been waiting for weeks long to see and speak with you. I knew that you were ill, and could find no means to approach you.’
‘You come too late, my friend—too late,’ said Mirabeau, sighing: ‘Royalist, Girondin, Bourbon, or the Mountain, they are all illusions now!’
‘The great principles of justice are not an illusion, sir; the idea of Right is immutable and immortal!’
‘I know of nothing that does not change and die,’ said Mirabeau gravely; then added, ‘But what would you with me?’
‘I have not courage to disturb your suffering sick-bed with cares you can no longer feel. I had not imagined I should have found you so ill as this.’
‘Sick unto death—if you can tell me what death means,’ said the other with a strange smile.
‘They who sent me,’ resumed Gerald, not heeding his last remark, ‘believed you in all the vigour of health as of intellect. They have watched with almost breathless interest the glorious conflict you have long maintained against the men of anarchy and the guillotine; they have recognised in you the one sole man, of all the nation, who can save France——’
The sick man smiled sadly, and laying his wasted fingers on Gerald’s arm, said, ‘It is not to be done!’
‘Do you mean, sir, that it is the will of the great Providence who rules us that this mighty people should sink under the tyranny of a few bloodthirsty wretches?’
‘I spoke not of France; I spoke of the Monarchy, said Mirabeau. ‘Look at those flowers there: in a few hours hence they will have lost their odour and their colour. Now, all your memory—be it ever so good—will not replace these to your senses. Go tell your master that his hour has struck. Monarchy was once a Faith; it will henceforth be but a Superstition.’
‘And is a just right like this to be abandoned?’
‘No. The stranger may place them on the throne they have lost; and if they be wise enough to repay the service with ingratitude, a few more years of this mock rule may be eked out.’
‘Would that I had power to tell you all our plans, and you the strength to listen to me!’ cried Gerald: ‘you would see that what they purpose is no puny enterprise; nor what they aim at, a selfish conquest.’
‘You came to me once before—I remember the incident well; I was living in the Avenue aux Abois when you summoned me to a meeting at St. Cloud. The Monarchy might have been saved even then. It was late, but not too late. I advised a ministry of such materials as the people might trust and the court corrupt—men of low origin, violent, exacting, but venal. Six months of such rule would have sent France back to all her ancient traditions, and the king been more popular than ever. But they would not hear me: they talked of walking in the high path of duty; and it has led some to the scaffold, and the rest to exile! But what concern have I with these things? Do you know, young man, that all your king could promise, all the mighty people themselves could bestow upon me as I lie here, could not equal the pleasure that moss-rose yields me, nor the ecstasy of delight I feel when a gentle wind blows fresh upon my cheek. Say it out, sir; say out what that supercilious smile implies,’ cried he, his eyes lighting up with all their ancient fire. ‘Tell me at once it was Mirabeau the voluptuary that spoke there! Ay, and I ‘ll not gainsay you! If to exult in the perfection of the senses nature has given me; to drink in with ecstasy what others imbibe in apathy; to feel a godlike enjoyment where less keenly gifted temperaments had scarcely known a pleasure—if this is to be a voluptuary, I am one.’
‘But why, with powers like yours, limit your enjoyment to mere sensual pleasures? Why not taste the higher and purer delight of succouring misfortune and defending the powerless?’
‘Ididtry it,’ said the sick man, sighing. ‘I essayed to discover the pleasures of what you would call morality. I was generous; I forgave injuries; I pardoned ingratitude; I aided struggling misery; but the reward was not forthcoming;—these things gave me no happiness.’
‘No happiness!’
‘None. I tried to forget I was a dupe; I did my best to believe myself a benefactor of my species; I stopped my ear against any praises from those I had befriended; but nothing in my heart responded to their joy. I was not happier. Remember, boy,’ cried he, ‘that even your own moralists only promise the recompense for virtue in another world. I looked for smaller profits and prompter payment. The mockery of his smile, as he spoke, seemed to wound Gerald; for, as he turned away his head, a deep flush covered his face. ‘Forgive me,’ said the sick man; ‘I ought to have remembered that your early training was derived from those worthy men, the Jesuit Fathers; and if I cannot participate in your consolations, I would not insult your convictions, Then, raising himself on one arm, he added, with a stronger effort: ‘Your mission to me is a failure, Fitzgerald. I cannot aid your cause: he whose trembling hand cannot carry the glass of water to his lips can scarce replace a fallen dynasty. I will not even deceive you by saying what, if health and strength were mine, I might do—perhaps I do not know it myself. Go back and tell your Prince that he and his must wait—wait like wise physicians—till nature bring the crisis of the malady; that all they could do now would but hurt the cause they mean to serve. When France needs her princes, she will seek them even out of exile. Let them beware how they destroy the prestige of their high estate by accepting equality meanwhile. They are the priests of a religion, and can never descend to the charges of the laity. As for you, yourself, it is well that I have seen you; I have long desired to speak to you of your own fortunes. I had written to Alfieri about you, and his answer—toyouan important document—is in that box. You will find the key yonder on the ring.’
As Gerald rose to obey this direction, Mirabeau fell back exhausted on the bed, a clammy sweat breaking out over his cheeks and forehead. The cry which unconsciously escaped the youth, quickly summoned the ‘sister’ to the bedside.
‘This is death,’ said she, in the calm, solemn voice of one long inured to such scenes. She tried to make him swallow a teaspoonful of some restorative, but the liquid dropped over his lips, and fell upon his chin. ‘Death—and what a death!’ muttered the sister, half to herself.
‘See—see—he is coming back to himself,’ whispered Gerald; ‘his eyes are opening, and his lips move,’ while a faint effort of the muscles around the mouth seemed to essay a smile.
Again she moistened his lips with the cordial, and this time he was able to swallow some drops of it. He made a slight attempt to speak, and as the sister bent her ear to his lips, he whispered faintly, ‘Tell him to come back—tomorrow—to-morrow!’
She repeated the words to Gerald, who, feeling that his presence any longer there might be hurtful, slowly and silently stepped from the room, and descended to the street.
Late as it was, a considerable crowd was assembled before the door in front of the house; their attitude of silent and respectful anxiety showed the deep interest felt in the sick man’s state; and although no name was spoken, the frequent recurrence of the words ‘he’ and ‘his’ evinced how absorbingly all thoughts were concentrated upon one individual. Nor was it only of one class in society the crowd was composed. Mirabeau’s admirers and followers were of every rank and every section of politicians; and, strangely enough, men whose public animosities had set them widely apart from each other were here seen exchanging their last tidings of the sick-room, and alternating and balancing their hopes and fears of his condition.
‘Jostinard calls the malady cerebral absorption,’ said one, ‘as though intense application had produced an organic change.’
‘Lessieux holds that the disease was produced by those mercurial baths he used to take to stimulate him on occasions of great public display,’ said another.
‘There is reason to believe it a family complaint of some sort,’ broke in—a third; ‘the Bailli de Mirabeau sank under pure exhaustion, as if the machine had actually worn out.’
‘Pardie!’ cried out a rough-looking man in a working dress; ‘it is hard that we cannot repair him with the strong materials the useless fellows are made of; there are full fifty in the Assembly we could give for one likehim.’
‘You talk of maladies,’ broke in a loud, full voice, ‘and I tell you that the Citizen Riquetti is dying of poison—ay, start, or murmur if you will—I repeat it, of poison. Do we not all know how his power is feared, and his eloquence dreaded? Are we strangers to those who hate this great and good man?’
‘Great and good he is,’ murmured another; ‘when shall we see his equal?’
‘See, here is one who has been lately with him; let us learn his news.’
This speech was uttered by a poorly-clad man, with a red cap on his head, as Gerald was endeavouring to pierce the crowd.
‘Who is the citizen who has this privilege of speaking with Gabriel Riquetti?’ said Cabrot, an over-dressed man, who stood the centre of a group of talkers.
Without paying any attention to this summons, Gerald tried to pursue his way and pass on; but several already barred the passage, and seemed to insist, as on a right, to hear the last account of the sick man. For a moment a haughty impulse to refuse all information thus demanded seemed to sway Gerald; then, suddenly changing his resolution, he calmly answered that Mirabeau appeared to him so ill as to preclude all hope of recovery, and that his state portended but few hours of life.
‘Ask him who he himself is?’—‘Why and how he came there?’—‘What medicine is Riquetti taking?’—‘Who administers it?’—‘Let this man give an account of himself!’ Such, and such like, were the cries that now resounded on all sides, and Gerald saw himself at once surrounded by a mob, whose demands were uttered in no doubtful tone.
‘The Citizen Riquetti is one whose life is dear to the Republic,’ broke in Cabrot; ‘all Frenchmen have a right to investigate whatever affects that life. Some aver that he is the victim of assassination——’
‘I say, and will maintain it, broke in the man who had made this assertion before; ‘they have given him some stuff that causes a gradual decay.’
‘Let this man declare himself. Who are you, Citizen, and whence?’ asked another, confronting Fitzgerald. ‘What business came you here to transact with the Citizen Riquetti?’
‘Have I askedyou, oryouoryou,’ said Gerald, turning proudly from one to the other of those around him, ‘of your private affairs? Have I dared to interrogateyouas to who you are, whence you came, whither you go? and by what presumption do you take this liberty withme?’
‘By that which a care of the public safety imposes,’ said Cabrot. ‘As Commissary of the fifth “arrondissement,” I demand this citizen’s name.’
‘You are right to be boastful of your liberty!’ said Gerald insolently, ‘when a man cannot walk the streets, nor even visit a dying friend, without submitting himself to the treatment of a criminal.’
‘He a friend of Gabriel Riquetti!’ burst in Cabrot. ‘Look, I beseech you, at the appearance of the man who gives himself this title.’
‘So, then, it is to my humble dress you object. Citizens, this speaks well for your fraternity and equality.’
‘You shall not evade a reckoning with us in this wise, said Cabrot. ‘Let us take him to the Corps du Garde, citizens.’
‘Ay! away with him to the Corps du Garde!’ cried several together.
Gerald became suddenly struck by the rashness of his momentary loss of temper, and quietly said, ‘I’ll not give you such trouble, citizens. What is it you wish to hear?’
‘Your compliance comes too late,’ said Cabrot; ‘we will do the thing in order; off with us to the Corps du Garde!’
‘I appeal to you all, why am I to be subjected to this insult?’ asked Gerald, addressing the crowd. ‘You deliver me to the Commissary, not for any crime or for any accusation of one; you compel me to speak about matters purely personal—circumstances which I could have no right to extort from any ofyou. Is this fair—is it just—is it decent?’
While he thus pleaded, the crowd was obliged to separate suddenly, and make way for a handsome equipage, which came up at full trot, and stopped before the door of Mirabeau’s house; and a murmur ran quickly around, ‘It is The Gabrielle come to ask after Riquetti’; and Cabrot, forgetting his part of public prosecutor, now approached the window of the carriage with an almost servile affectation of courtesy. Had Gerald been so disposed, nothing would have been easier for him than to make his escape in the diversion caused by this new incident, so eager was the crowd to press around and catch a glimpse of her whose gloved hand now rested on the door of the carriage.
‘She is Riquetti’s mistress,’ cried one; ‘is not she?’
‘Not a bit of it. Riquetti declared he would have no other mistress than France; and though she yonder changed her name to Gabrielle to flatter him, though she has sought and followed him for more than a year, it avails her nothing.’
‘Less than nothing I’d call it,’ said another, ‘since she pays for all those flowers that come up from the banks of the Var—the rarest roses and orange buds—just to please him.’
‘More than that too; she has paid all his debts—in Paris some six hundred thousand livres—all for a man who will not look at her.’
‘"That is to be a ‘veritable’ woman!”’ said a foppish-looking man, who was for some time endeavouring to attract the attention of the fair occupant of the carriage.
Meanwhile, Gerald had pressed his way through the crowd, curious to catch one look of her whose devotion seemed so romantic.
‘You see me in despair—in utter despair, Belle Gabrielle. There was no place to be had at the Français last night, and I missed your glorious “Phèdre.”’
Her reply was inaudible, but the other went on—
‘Of course, the effort must have cost you deeply, yet even in that counterfeit of another’s sorrow who knows if you did not interpolate some portion of your own grief!’
‘Is he better? Can I not see the Sister Constance,’ asked she, in a low and liquid voice.
‘He is no better; I believe he is far worse than yesterday. There was a young man here this moment who saw him, and whose interview, by the way, gave rise to grave speculation. There he is yonder—a strange-looking figure to call himself the friend of Gabriel Riquetti.’
‘Who or what is he?’ asked she eagerly.
‘It is what none of us know, though, indeed, at the moment you came up, we had some thoughts of compelling him to declare. Need I tell you that there is grave suspicion of foul play here; many are minded to believe that Mirabeau has been poisoned. See how that fellow continues to stare at you, Gabrielle. Do you know him?’
Step by step, slowly, but with eyes riveted upon the object before him, Gerald had now approached the carriage, and stood within a few yards of it, his eyeballs staring wildly, his lips apart, and every line of his face betraying the most intense astonishment. Nor was Gabrielle less moved: with her head protruded beyond the carriage-window, and her hair pushed suddenly back by some passing impulse, she gazed wildly at the stranger.
‘Gherardi, Gherardi mio!’ cried she at last. ‘Speak, and tell me if it be you.’
‘Marietta, oh, Marietta!’ said he, with a sigh, whose heartfelt cadence seemed eloquent in sorrow.
‘Come with me. Come home with me, and you shall hear all, said she, in Italian, answering as it were the accents of his words.
The young man shook his head mournfully in reply, but never spoke.
‘I tell you,’ cried she, more passionately, ‘that you shall hear all. It is more than I have said to a confessor. Come, come,’ and she flung open the door as she spoke.
‘If you but knew how I have longed to see you, Marietta!’ whispered he, in broken accents; ‘but not thus, oh, not thus!’
‘How, then, do you dare to judge me?’ cried she, with flashing eyes; ‘how presume to scoff atmyaffluence, whileIhave not dared to reflect uponyourpoverty? Once, and for the last time, I say, come with me!’
Without another word he sprang to her side, the door was closed, and the carriage drove rapidly away, ere the staring crowd could express their amazement at what they had witnessed.
By one of those inconsistencies which sway the popular mind in times of trouble, the gorgeous splendour and wasteful extravagance which were not permitted to an ancient nobility were willingly conceded to those who now ministered to public amusement, and the costly magnificence which aided the downfall of a monarchy was deemed pardonable in one whose early years had been passed in misery and in want.
It was in the ancient hotel of the Duc de Noailles that Gabrielle was lodged, and all the splendour of that princely residence remained as in the time of its former owners; even to the portraits of the haughty ancestry upon the walls, and the proud emblazonry of armorial bearings over doors and chimneys, nothing was changed; the embroidered crests upon chairs and tablecovers, the gilded coronets that ornamented every architrave and cornice, stood forth in testimony of those in whose honour those insignia were fashioned.
Preceding Gerald, and walking at a rapid pace, Gabrielle passed through several splendid rooms, till she came to one whose walls, hung in purple velvet with a deep gold fringe, had an air of almost sombre magnificence, the furniture being all of the same grave tint, and even the solitary lamp which lighted the apartment having a glass shade of a deep purple colour.
‘This is my chamber of study, Gherardi,’ said she, as they entered. ‘None ever come to disturb me when here. Here, therefore, we are alone to question and to reply to each other—to render account of the past and speculate on the future—and, first of all, tell me, am I changed?’
As she spoke she tossed aside her bonnet, and loosening her long hair from its bands, suffered it to fall upon her neck and shoulders in the wild masses it assumed in girlhood. She crossed her arms, too, upon her breast in imitation of a gesture familiar to her, and stood motionless before him.
Long and steadfastly did Gerald continue to stare at her.. It was like the look of one who would read if he might every trait and lineament before him, and satisfy his mind what characters had time written upon a nature he had once known so well.
‘You do not answer me,’ said she at last; ‘am I then changed?’
A faint low sigh escaped him, but he uttered no word.
‘Be frank with me as a brother ought; tell me wherein is this change? You thought me handsome once; am I less so?’
‘Oh! no, no! not that, not that!’ cried he passionately; ‘you are more beautiful than ever.’
‘Is there in my expression aught that gives you grief? has the world written boldness upon my brow? or do you fancy that you can trace the cost of all the splendour around us in some faint lines of shame and sorrow? Speak, sir, and be honest with me.’
‘I have no right to call you to such a reckoning, Marietta,’ said he, half proudly.
‘I know it, and would have resented had you dared to do it of a right; but I stand here as one equal to such questioning. It will be your own turn soon,’ added she, smiling, ‘and it will be well if you can stand the test so bravely.’
‘I accept the challenge,’ cried Gerald eagerly; ‘I take you at your word. Some years back, Marietta, I left you poor, friendless, and a wayworn wanderer through the world. Our fortunes were alike in those days, and I can remember when we deemed the day a lucky one that did not send us supperless to bed. We had sore trials, and we felt them, though we bore them bravely. When we parted, our lot was misery, and now, what do I see? I find you in the splendour of a princely house; your dress that which might become the highest rank; the very jewels on your wrist and on your fingers a fortune. I know well,’ added he, bitterly, ‘that in this brief interval of time destiny has changed many a lot; great and glorious men have fallen; and mean, ignoble, and unworthy ones have taken their places. You, however, as a woman, could have taken no share in these convulsions. How is it, then, that I see you thus?’
‘Say on, sir,’ said she, with a disdainful gesture; ‘these words mean nothing, or more than they ought.’
He did not speak, but he bent his eyes upon her in reproachful silence.
‘You lack the courage to say the word. Well, I ‘ll say it for you: Whose mistress are you to be thus splendidly attired? What generous patron has purchased this princely house—given you equipage, servants, diamonds? Against how much have you bartered your heart? Who has paid the price? Ay, confess it, these were the generous thoughts that filled your mind—these the delicate questions your timidity could not master. Well, as I have spoken, so will I answer them. Only remember this,’ added she solemnly, ‘when I have made this explanation, when all is told, there is an end for ever between us of that old tie that once bound us: we trust each other no more. It is for you to say if you accept this contract.’
Gerald was silent; if he could not master the suspicions that impressed him, as little could he resolve to forget for ever his hold upon Marietta. That she was one to keep her word he well knew; and if she decided to part, he felt that the separation was final. She watched him calmly, as he sat in this conflict with himself; so far from showing any sense of impatience at the struggle, she seemed rather to enjoy the painful difficulty of his position.
‘Well, have you made your choice?’ cried she at length, as with a slight smile she stood in front of him.
‘It would be a treachery to my own heart, and to you, too, were I to say that all this magnificence I see here suggested no thought of evil. We were poor even to misery once, Marietta—I am still so; and well I know that in such wretchedness as ours temptation is triply dangerous. To tell me that you have yielded is, then, no more than to confess you were like others.’
‘Of what, then, do you accuse me? Is it that I am Mirabeau’s mistress? Would that I were!’ cried she passionately; ‘would that by my devotion I could share his love and give him all my own! You would cry shame upon me for this avowal. You think more highly of your own petty contrivances, your miserable attempts to sustain a mock morality—your boasted tie of marriage—than of the emotions that are born with you, that move your infancy, sway your manhood, and temper your old age. You hold that by such small cheats you supply the insatiable longings of the human heart. But the age of priestcraft is over; throne, altar, purple, sceptre, incense and all, have fled; and in the stead of man’s mummeries we have installed Man himself, in the might of his intellect, the glorious grandeur of his great conceptions, and the noble breadth of his philanthropy; and who is the type of these, if not Gabriel Riquetti? His mistress! what have I not done to win the proud name? Have I not striven hard for it? These triumphs, as they call them, my great successes, had no other promptings. If my fame as an actress stands highest in Europe, it was gained but in his cause. Your great Alfieri himself has taught me no emotions I have not learned in my own deep love; and how shadowy and weak the poet’s words beside the throbbing ecstasies of one true heart! You ask for a confession: you shall have one. But why do you go? Would you leave me?’
‘Would that we had never met again!’ said Gerald sadly. ‘Through many a dark and sad hour have I looked back upon our life, when, as little more than children, we journeyed days long together. I pictured to myself how the same teachings that nerved my own heart in trouble must have supported and sustained yours. If you knew how I used to dwell upon the memory of that time; its very privations were hallowed in my memory, telling how through all our little cares and sorrows our love sufficed us!’
‘Our love,’ broke she in scoffingly. ‘What a mockery! The poor offspring of some weak sentimentality, the sickly cant of some dreamy sonneteer. These men never knew what love was, or they had not dared to profane it by their tawdry sentiments. Is it in nature,’ cried she wildly, ‘to declare trumpet-tongued to the world the secrets on which the heart feeds to live, the precious thoughts that to the dearest could not be revealed? These are your poets! Over and over have I wished for you to tell you this—to tear out of your memory that wretched heresy we then believed a faith.’
‘You have done your work well,’ said he sorrowfully. ‘Good-bye for ever!’
‘I wish you would not go, Gherardi,’ said she, laying her hand on his arm, and gazing at him with a look of the deepest meaning. ‘To me, alone and orphaned, you represent a family and kindred. The old ties are tender ones.’
‘Why will you thus trifle with me?’ said he, half angrily.
‘Is it to rekindle the flame you would extinguish afterward?’
‘And why not return to that ancient faith? You were happier when you loved me—when I learned my verses by your side, and sang the wild songs of my own wild land. Do you remember this one; it was a favourite once with you?’ And, turning to the piano, she struck a few chords, and in a voice of liquid melody sang a little Calabrese peasant song, whose refrain ended with the words—
‘Ti am’ ancor, ti am’ ancor.’
‘After the avowal you have made me, Marietta, it were base in me to be beguiled thus,’ said he, moving away. ‘You love another: be it so. Live in that love, and be happy.’
‘This, too, Gherardi, we used to sing together,’ said she, beginning another air. ‘Let us see if your memory, of which you boast so much, equals mine. Come, this is your verse,’ said she caressingly. ‘Ah, fratello mio, how much more lovable you were long ago! I remember a certain evening, that glided into a long night, when we leaned together, with arms around each other’s necks, out of a little window; it was a poor, melancholy street beneath, but to us it was like an alley between cedar-trees. Well, on that same night, you swore to me a vow of eternal love; you told me a miraculous story: that, though poor and friendless, you were of birth and blood; and that birth and blood meant rank and fortune in some long hereafter, for which neither of us was impatient. It was on that same night you drew a picture to my mind of our life of happiness—a bright and gorgeous picture it was too—ay, and I believed it all; and yet, and yet—on the very day after you deserted me.’ As she uttered the last words, her head fell upon his shoulder, and her long hair in waving masses dropped down over his chest and on his arm; a violent sobbing seemed to choke her utterance, and her frame shook with a strong tremor.
Gerald sank into a chair, and pressed her gently to his heart. Oh, what a wild conflict raged within him; what hopes and fears, wishes and dreads, warred there with each other! At one moment all his former love came back, and she was the same Marietta he had wandered with through the chestnut groves, reciting in boyish ardour the verses he had learned to master; at the next, a shuddering shame reminded him that she had just confessed she loved another, making a very mockery of the memory of their former passion. What, too, was she—what her life—that she did not dare to reveal it?
‘And you,’ cried she, suddenly springing up, ‘what do you know of Riquetti? How came you to be with him?’
‘I have known him long, Marietta. Would that I had never known him! Without him and his teachings I had thought better of the world—been less prone to suspect—less ready to distrust. You may remember how, long ago, I told you of a certain Gabriel——’
‘It was he, then, who befriended you in the Maremma? Oh, the noble nature that can do generous things, yet seem to think them weakness! How widely different from your poets this—your men of high sentiment and sordid action—your coiners of fine phrases, hollow-hearted and empty!’
‘True enough,’ said Gerald bitterly; ‘Gabriel de Mirabeau is at least consistent; his sentiments are all in harmony with his life—he is no hypocrite.’
It was with a quick gesture, like a tigress about to spring, that she now turned on him, her eyeballs staring wildly, and her fingers closely clutched. ‘Is it,’ cried she in passion, ‘is it given to creatures like you or me to judge of a man like this? Do you imagine that by any strain of your fancy you can conceive the trials, the doubts, the difficulties, which beset him? To intellects like his what we call excess may give that repose which to sluggish natures comes of mere apathy. I, too,’ said she, drawing herself proudly up, ‘I, too, have been his pupil; he saw me in the Cleopatra; he told me how I had misconceived the poet—or rather, how the poet had mistaken the character—for he loves not your Alfieri.’
‘How should he? Whence could he draw upon the noble fund of emotions that fill that great heart?’
A smile of proud, ineffable scorn was all her reply.
‘Tell me rather of yourself, Marietta mia,’ said he, taking her hand, and placing her at his side. ‘I long to hear how you became great and distinguished, as I see you.’
‘The human heart throbs alike beneath rags or purple. When I could make tears course down the rude cheeks that were gaunt with famine, the task was easy to move those whose natures yielded to lighter impulse. For a whole winter—it was the first after we parted—I was the actress of a little theatre in the cité. We dramatised the events of the day; and they whose hard toil estranged them from the world of active life, could see at evening the sorrows and sufferings of the nobility they hated on “the scène.” The sack of chateau and the guillotine were favourite themes; and mine was to portray some woman of the people, seduced, wronged, deserted, but avenged! A chance—a caprice of the moment—brought Riquetti one night to our theatre. He came behind the scenes and talked with me. My accent betrayed my birth, and we talked Italian. He questioned me closely, how and where I had learned to declaim. I spoke of you, though not by name. “Ah!” cried he, “a lover already!” The look which he gave me at the words was like a stab; I felt it here, in my heart. It was the careless scoff of one who deemed that to such as me no sense of delicacy need be observed. He might think and say as he pleased, my station was too ignoble to suggest respect. I hated him, and turned away, vowing, if occasion served, to be revenged upon him. He came a few nights after, accompanied by several others—there were ladies too, handsome and splendidly dressed. This splendour shocked the meanness of our misery, and even outraged the meanly clad audience around. I saw this, and seized it as the opportunity of my vengeance. Our piece was, as usual, the story of our daily life; I represented a seduced peasant girl, left to starve in a chateau, from which the owners had gone to enjoy the delights of Paris. I had wandered on foot to the capital, and was supposed to be in search of my seducer through the streets. I sat famished and shivering upon a door-sill, watching with half-listless gaze the rich tide of humanity that swept past. I heeded not the proud display of equipages; the gay groups; the gorgeous procession of life before me; till suddenly, as if on a balcony, I beheld him I sought, the centre of a knot of beautiful women, who, leaning over the balustrade, seemed to criticise the world below. Addressing myself at once to where Riquetti sat, I made him part of the scene. I knew nothing of him, nor of his history; but in blind chance I actually invented some of the chief incidents of his life. I made him a profligate, a duellist, and a seducer. I represented how he had won the affections of his friend’s wife, eloped with, and deserted her; and yet, covered with crime, debased by every iniquity, and degraded by every vice, there he sat, successful, triumphant, and esteemed.
‘What was my amazement, as the curtain fell, to see him at my side. “I have come,” said he, in that rich, deep voice of his—“I have come to make you my compliments; you have your country’s gift, and can ‘improvise’ well!” I blushed deeply, and could not answer him; but he went on: “These, however, are not wise themes to dwell upon. Popular passions are dangerous seas, and will often shipwreck even those whose breath has stirred them; besides, this is not art”; and with these words he launched forth into a grand description of what really should constitute the artist’s realm, to what his teachings might extend, where should be their limits. He showed how the strict imitation of nature was an essential, yet, that the true criterion of success in art lay in the combination of such ingredients as best suited the impression to be conveyed; no mean or petty detail, however truthful or accurate, being suffered to detract from the whole conception. He then warned me against exaggeration, the prime fault of all inexperienced minds. “Even this very moment,” said he, “you marred a fine effect when you spoke of me as one capable of parricide.” “Of you,” said I, blushing, and trying to disown the personality. “Yes,” said he, “of me. Your biography was often very accurate—to any but myself it might seem painfully accurate: I have done all that you ascribe to me, and more!”—“But I never knew it,” cried I; “I never heard it; my improvisation was pure chance. I owed you a vendetta for some cruel words you had spoken to me.”—“I remember them,” said he, smiling; “you may live to believe that such phrases are a flattery! But to yourself, come to me to-morrow; bring your books with you, that you may read me something I will select. I can and may befriend you!” And he did befriend me.
‘There was with him a tall, dark man, of sombre aspect, and a deep voice, who questioned me long and closely as to my early studies, and who undertook from that hour to teach me. This was Talma.
‘And now a life of glorious labour opened upon me. I worked unceasingly, with such ardour, indeed, as to affect my health, which at last gave way, and I was obliged to retire into the country, on the Loire, to recruit. Riquetti came to see me once there; he was coming up from the south, and happened to stop at Tours. His visit was scarcely an hour, but it left me with memories that endured for months. But why should I weary you with a recital which can only interest when all its daily chances and changes are duly weighed? I came out at the “Français” as Zaire; my success was a triumph! Roxane followed, and was even a greater success. You do not care to hear by what flatteries I was surrounded, what temptations assailed me, what wealth laid at my feet, what protestations of devotion, what offers of splendour met me. We were in a world that, repudiating all its old traditions, had sworn allegiance to a new code! Nobility, birth, title, were as nothing; genius alone could sway men’s minds. Eloquence was deemed the grand exponent of intellect; and next after the splendid oratory of the Constituent came the declamation of the drama. You must know France in its aspect of generous youth—in this, its brightest hour of destiny—to understand how much of influence is wielded by those who once were deemed the mere creatures of a pampered civilisation. The artist is now a “puissance,” as is every power that can move the passions, influence the motives, and direct the actions of mankind. The choice of the piece we played at night was in accordance with the political exigency of the day; and often has it been my lot to complete by some grand declamation the eloquent appeal by which Mirabeau had moved the Assembly. Oh, what a glorious life it was to feel no longer the mere mouthpiece of mock passion, but a real, actual, living influence on men’s hearts; what a triumph was it then to hear that wild outburst of applause, that seemed to say: “Here are we, ready at your call; speak but the word and the blade shall flash and the brand flare; denounce the treason, and leave the traitors to us!” It was in this life, as in an orgie, I have lived. If you fancy that I exaggerate this power, or overrate its extent, listen to one fact.
‘I was one night at Mirabeau’s—at one of those small, select receptions which none but his most intimate friends frequented. D’Entraiques was there, Lavastocque, Maurice de Talleyrand, De Noe, and a few more. We were talking of the fall of the Monarchy, and discussing whether there was in the story anything that future dramatists might successfully avail themselves of. The majority thought not, and gave their reasons. I was not able to controvert by argument such subtle critics, but I replied by improvising a scene in the Temple of Marie Antoinette writing a last letter to her children. There was no incident to give story, no accessory of scenery to suggest a picture; but I felt that the theme had its own pathetic power, and I was right. D’Entraiques shed tears; Charles de Noe sobbed aloud. “She must never repeat this,” muttered Riquetti.—“Not for a while at least,” said Talleyrand, smiling, as he took a pinch of snuff. From that hour I felt what it was to stir men’s hearts. Then, success became real; for it was certain and assured.